Camping, Drinking, and Mosquitoes

Still drunk, sleep deprived, and this is the dirtiest my hands have ever been.  There’s a race going on.  I’m waiting to see who will arrive first, the sun, or my hangover.  My money is on the hangover.  The mosquitoes have detected my stink, even through the heavy disguise of filth.  I’ll let them drink today, in hopes that they siphon some of the alcohol out of my blood.  I can picture them now, a flock of fifty, flying sideways, as drunk as I am.

On second thought, fuck these miniature airborne assholes.  I’ll slap every one of them into dusty blood spots on my shins.  It’s my blood and my alcohol – these malaria carriers can’t have a sip.  The ones that fly into my ears will get the worst of it.  I’ll maim them with a flick and watch them twitch by my shoes.

Who would have thought, mosquitoes are fond of the sauce.  They’ve called for reinforcements.  One of them must have told his friends about the free booze.  I’m getting overwhelmed.  I can’t get a full sentence down before another flying zit uses me as a refueling station. 

I may have to abandon ship, seek shelter in the tent.  They’re really going for me now.  I hope they can smell their cousins, smashed into paste between my palms.  

*editor’s note* When camping, don’t drunkenly consume a Five-Hour-Energy when there aren’t five hours left in the night.  You won’t be able to sleep.  Your tent will feel like a prison.  The next thing you know, it will be five in the morning, you’ll be sitting in the dirt, watching the sunrise – wildly swatting at mosquitoes.