Mosquitos Love Me
Mosquitos love me. Whenever I’m outside during the summer months, whether it be at the campfire or doing yard work, mosquitos swarm, feasting on my blood in a way that others do not experience. It almost feels as if mosquitos purposefully seek me out, which I suppose is somewhat flattering, considering how low my confidence is after my recent string of failed relationships.
Mosquitoes listen to me. Sometimes at the end of a long, arduous day, I like to open my patio door and discuss my problems with the mosquitoes. Sure they bite me from time to time, but it’s better than getting my wallet sucked dry by a therapist. Also, real therapists demand accountability from their patients in ways that mosquitoes do not.
Mosquitoes support me. Most of the readership that I have for my online comedy writing comes from mosquitoes. They fly into houses, form singular masses with the power to navigate keyboards, and gorge themselves on my satire like it’s a teenage boy’s ankle on the 4th of July. I appreciate the interest in my work, but the mosquitoes always offer unsolicited feedback like “Heighten this,” and “More stuff about teenage boys’ ankles.“ Then again, at least the mosquitoes read my stuff, which is more than I can say for my last partner, who was always on me to “focus on work that actually pays” and “pivot to video instead of a dead medium.”
