The Mosquito Bite On Memorial Drive
It is my most expected travel plans. Starting out with gasps cooked by weaving cars that ride on janky 24s. The majority of the trip, my mind falls from a heightened waterfall of my particular-extremely-individualistic-wonderland, well known as day-dreaming formalities. Tick, tick, turning left, breaking slowly as my wheels hit Memorial Drive. My wonderland comes to an end and anxiety kicks me in the balls.
“I’m pulling off the exit, come outside,” I say to my Dad. Wobbly knees as I navigate through nostalgia and despair, but with a filling of extraordinary hope and love. It is my most expected travel plans, yet it is the dustiest, most challenging puzzle to solve.
There never comes enthusiasm, because of all the potholes (you know those damn emotions that are superior to all those craved positive ones). But this trip, I left with a mosquito bite, a juicy one. It’d be, for sure, a treasured mosquito bite.
“Ha ha, it’s been a blast as always, but this time you guys won’t be forgotten, at least not for the next few days. I’m leaving with a mosquito bite that will annoy me and be scratched in the few days to follow. I’ll think of you all when I itch this annoying little sucker.” I’ve learned my jokes don’t phase them. One is indulged in modern day distractions, another lost himself to the spear of just one of the world’s famously heart-breaking strokes, oh, and one whom is warped by distress. They do love me though, even if they don’t understand who I am. They’ve seen me grow at massive rates, and have held me, kissed me, and even cried with me. We share our common thread, our bloodline.
Let me take it easy, and water down this reality; I shaved tonight. I examined the cuts, bruises, and bumps on my legs, and there it was, The Mosquito Bite from Memorial Drive. I have a scab to prove it. Maybe after-all, it’s the hispanic blood that attracts those bitches. My most expected travels plans, is actually never predictable.