23. Fuck You Bed Bugs

A letter to the enemy and empathy for those who’ve ever had them

Dear Bed Bugs,
I don’t even know if you’re real. Well, I think you’re real but I don’t even know if you’re in my apt. My left arm is covered in bites. They look like golf ball welts on my arm. I am itchy as fuck. I can’t think about anything else except how itchy I am. I’ve spent hours discussing you, trying to figure out what you look like. Where you live. How to get rid of you. If my roommates have seen you. Canceling plans in case you are lurking. I’ve spent hours washing my clothes, my bedding, my couch cushion covers, vacuuming. Speculating with everyone whether or not I have you. The paranoia. The rage. The fear of if I’ll ever be able to sleep through the night again. The fear that you will never leave me alone. I bought some terrible smelling spray that will probably give me cancer but I’m spraying everything. That is how much I hate you. I would rather get cancer from this bullshit pesticide than feel the wrath of your poison. 50–70% of humans don’t have any allergic reaction to you. I wish, I wish, I wish I did not react. If only I had such control. You’ve left me an emotional wreck. Please, please please, find another victim.