I don’t know what it is this year but I’ve got sixteen fucking bites from my belly down to my ankles. They don’t just itch, they itch with a nuclear intensity that kills souls and I can’t fall asleep at night without ice packs on each of them to dull the desire to tear the flesh from my bones.
Some of them have morphed into red patches of raised pustules weeping fluid that I have to bandage before I leave the house lest onlookers accuse me of leprosy or share their COVID with me via these handy entry points. I’ve bought more athletic tape and sterile gauze this spring than all other springs combined. At one point, the pustules blended with April’s contusion in a dermatological fault line to create an Uber-sore.
This has been going on since May. Every fucking night and day since May. Yes, I wear DEET. Yes, I avoid foliage. Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of spider-of-Satan but I’m at a loss as to how to avoid the little bastards considering I’m a landscape designer.
This is one bite–ONE.
