Tick-ed Off, or, the Wondrous Mysteries of Nature
So last night, Kevin woke me up and asked me to rub his back. No problem, I’ve been a little sore lately too. I’m still half asleep when I reach back to rub my lower back and find a little scab thing on my right side.
Almost immediately, I realize that it’s a tick and not a scab and I quickly rip the little insect asshole off of my skin. I realize that that is, perhaps, not the correct tick-removal protocol, but I was oogied out.
Not only did I have a tick, and holy crap do I hate ticks, but some mysterious bug has gotten very fresh and bitten me on my thigh and under one of my boobs. I feel like nature is sexually harrassing me. And I don’t have to take it.
Except that I do, because I don’t know what bit me or really what to do about it. I pray that it isn’t the elusive Sopchoppy Death Spider.
In other news, It’s Monday! Hooray! Back to work at last. Jeez, I’m sure glad all those days off, lounging around and eating delicious Backwoods are over. I miss work with it’s interminability, it’s painful dullness. And my coworkers! I’ve never seen people sit around and do nothing so beautifully. Really, it’s almost poetic.
At least I have a new This American Life to keep me company for at least an hour. Only This American Life almost always makes me cry, even when it’s not necessarily about something sad. I can’t wait until they do one about tick bite survivors because I seriously doubt that anyone could listen to my harrowing story of bravery and survival and come out unmoved.
