Bite Me

I must be perfectly delicious.

What other explanation could there possibly be for the veritable feast I offer mosquitoes that they keep coming back for more? And more.  And more.

One night.  One ankle.  10 bites.  Endless scratching.  Blood.  Scabs. Scars.

Please, look away – it’s hideous - like I have an infectious disease contracted in the Congo.  That would be memoir worthy!  But scabs on account of rampant scratching to ease the killer itch of mosquito bites? Perfectly lame. 

These particular mosquitoes were obviously hungry, but I must admit they were also rather deliberate.  My latest bites are almost perfectly parallel to my somewhat cool but mostly grotesque broken ankle scar.  I can curse the little bastards all I want for these flippin’ bites, but I would be remiss if I didn’t also commend them for their appreciation of symmetry.  Well.  Done.

So when my latest scratch fest, which has also yielded another use for the stiletto heel, is over and I only have the scars to prove it (you can only see them if we re-create the scar scene from JAWS), I will fondly remember the evening that yielded these bites/scabs/scars and hope that the new hungry crew that comes around has been to the same bite pattern design school – I’m looking for something a little more whimsical next time, preferably on the left side.

Come on, Bite Me.