I’m basically solar powered, so when it’s nice outside, I’m either walking, working out in the yard or basking in the sun like a lizard on a heated rock.
This is my preferred location when it’s between 65-80 degrees. My hot and sexy male suntan applier is hiding out of this shot.
And much like that amphibious analogy, I occasionally eat bugs—or they go up my nose. Not on purpose, mind you, but as an indirect result of talking or breathing while I do the aforementioned activities. Considering one of those things is rather necessary to survival (although I would argue that both of them are,) it really can’t be avoided.
Just because it can’t be avoided doesn’t mean it doesn’t still tick me off.
Although I know they serve a purpose, bugs suck—both literally and figuratively. Aside from flying up our noses or sneaking in our mouths, they suck the fun out of outdoor situations by sucking the blood out of our innocent souls, leaving us with un-itchable itchy bumps as a reminder of their intrusive visits to our flesh and our fun.
We use sprays, creams, zappers and Tiki torches with citronella oil in an effort to ward off their presence, yet we will still find ourselves cursing the little assholes as we scratch and claw at our bites.
These bugs have balls.
They have no fear.
They laugh at us as we wave our arms around like crazy people and run around the yard with a 75-cent plastic fly swatter that’s about as effective as hitting a softball with a wet noodle.
But I refuse to let them win.
They will not stop me from a) breathing or b) talking, therefore running the risk of accidental consumption or a vacuuming up the nose.
I might not have balls and I might have irrational fears of weird things like sneezing while driving or developing an allergy to asparagus, but I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing—lighting torches and swatting at the little bastards, all the while reeking of DEET and frustration.
You’ve been warned, my flying friends, you’ve been warned.