The season is here. That’s right. It’s scratch and bleed season. As I sit at my keyboard, I am staring at an open wound inflicted by yours truly, the man who can not resist the itch of a mosquito bite. The biting boogers were out last weekend as I sat peacefully enjoying the peaceful twilight on my front porch, stealthily perching between the hair on my ankles and stealing the life from my veins. Generally only a few actually itch and I can usually resist the itch, even subconsciously, if the bites are below the knee.
I love the commercial from a few years back where a man eating food doused with tabasco sauce watches gleefully as a mosquito lights on his arm, drinks its fill, flies off and explodes in mid air, a victim of the tabasco that inhabited the man’s veins. One of the little tricks I learned as a teen was mosquito torture. If a mosquito lands on a spot in the middle of a muscle, let’s say the forearm, one waits until the mosquito is in, then the muscle is tightened and held that way. The mosquito can not pull out and fills up until it finally bursts. The demented side of me likes to sit and watch that mosquito struggle as it fills and expands. That wound on my forearm is a result of doing just that.
Of course, when the mosquito bite is in an easily accessible place like my forearm, I itch it until it is raw. Usually I don’t realize I have been scratching the bite until I look at my arm to see the blood oozing in a little stream towards my hand. And even as it heals over the unconscious urge to scratch strikes. Several times today I reopened the wound. This afternoon my coworker came into my office to give me a note, a grossed out look on her face as she observed the open wound bleeding as I took the paper from her.
Ahhhhhh, the joys of summer. It will only get worse. One of the drawbacks of living in an area with lots of open fields, forests, and wetlands is the abundance of mosquitoes that appear in swarms at dusk each night this time of year. I will be a bumpy mess for the next few weeks.