I am sickly attractive to running my fingertips over new mosquito bites. It’s like something new on my skin I haven’t met yet. I like to pinch it and make criss-crosses with my fingernails and watch them change color when I move them a bit. What is it? Do I really want to know? Or can I just assume it’s something unknown to man and, more importantly, my skin. I’m an experiement to this little bug and he’s probably off with his bugbuddies somewhere bragging about pricking me without my knowing—taken by a wee little fucker. And he left a mark and it itches. I have something kin to a sexually transmitted disease via a mosquito’s prick and if I see him again, I’ll kill the bastard. I’ll squash the pathetic fucker with one finger and then tell all my girlfiends how small and uneventful he was, how all the while he was pricking me I didn’t even know he was there.
I am ready to chew my left arm off below the elbow.