Tiny Ruffians that Want to Kill You

I love animals. Animals rock. They’re funny, adorable (for the most part), and essential for life on earth. But I’m not going to talk about animals today. Nope. That was just a set up for the cruel sentiments to come. Because you want to know what I hate?

I hate bugs.

Hate ‘em! They’re evil, blood sucking, stinging fiends. Even the cute ones like ladybugs will pee all over you if you catch them.

So, I venture out into nature for a day, sans ugly beast repellant, and this is what I get in return:

[Showering]

Me: Oh baby, you--you got what I neeed. But you say I’m just a friend. But you say I’m just a fr—

[Hones in on strange black spots on knees]

What the? [Picks at them] Those aren’t exfoliating beads. Those things are . . . moving. Oh. My. God. They’re TICKS!

[Turns off shower, accomplishes epic dry-off and dress time, runs sobbing to boyfriend]

Are these ticks!? Are these ticks!?

Boyfriend: . . . Yeah.

Me: OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD. What do I do!? Get them off!

Boyfriend: [Buries head under pillow]

Granted, I was dumb enough to go into the woods without wearing any bug repellant, but those jerks clustered everywhere. I probably had close to eighty seed ticks all over my legs. I’m not exaggerating. And now, weeks later, they still itch like hell and are producing a satanic, oozing sap. Not to mention, I probably have Lyme disease.

No more deer season. I’m starting a “stomp on anything smaller than a butterfly” season. Who’s with me?