Not one to beat around the bush, or mince my words, or make a big song and dance, I fucking hate mosquitoes. I really do. I hate the way they buzz, that sort of high pitched ‘wheeee’ noise they make as they flit past your ear. I hate the way their bodies swell up when they’re full of my precious, life-giving blood, which clearly tastes like a Malbec the way they all seem to enjoy it so much. I hate the way you don’t know they’re there until you suddenly realise you just can’t stop scratching that weird place in between your big toe and your second and then you realise GODAMMIT THE BASTARDS GOT ME AGAIN.
I hate the way mosquito repellent doesn’t bloody work. I spend all day smelling like I’ve taken a bath in Dettol ‘with a touch of eucalyptus’ and still get at least five bites. I’ve even been bitten on my neck by the vampiric parasites.
I hate the way in summer you can’t have the window open with the light on. So, it’s either living in darkness or death by blood-sucking parasite. And they still come in even when the lights off anyway. And they bring their friends. Almost as if the surface of my skin has ‘tenedor libre’ written all over it.
I hate the way people try to kill them by clapping their hands in the air. You look ridiculous and completely malcoordinated, as if trying to keep time with the crazy rhythmn in your head to that song you can’t remember by Manu Chao. And it never actually works.
I don’t care about loving all creatures great and small. I don’t care about their place in the evolutionary stakes. I don’t care about anything to do with them. People get squeamish about cockroaches, but quite frankly cockroaches don’t bite, and they would survive an atomic bomb which at least makes them a bit cool – mind, mosquitoes probably would too, come to think of it, but then at least all the living, blood pumping, animals would be dead and the poor little buzzy flying leeches would starve to death.
On which note, if you are lucky enough not to suffer from ‘tasty blood syndrome’, then don’t rub it in. Commenting on how ‘mosquitoes don’t really bite me’ when confronted by someone who would gladly take a potato peeler to their outer layer of skin just to stop the itching is a bit like eating a choripan in front a malnourished orphan.
Tell you what I love, though. I love electric fly swatters.