My home has been invaded. Oh, not by creepy spiders, or cheese-eating mice. Not by ants, roaches, or wooly worms. Worse. It\’s been invaded by ONE mosquito with the landing gear of a Boeing 747. This ONE mosquito is deadlier than a hungry 8-foot grizzly bear at a Southern family reunion, which we all know has fried chicken on every table, right along side the potato salad.

This mosquito, who I have un-affectionately name Rambo, is quicker than greased lightening, shows up just after enough time has slipped by for me to forget the pain, and always seems to reappear the moment I\’ve laid down the flyswatter. Oh right. Like that weapon scares Rambo. I think not.

I tell ya, I can\’t take it anymore. It\’s not that I mind so much coming into the office smelling like a pine tree with all of the “Off” bug spray on me, but knowing Rambo is hiding behind the printer, or maybe the peanut butter pretzels, or—sigh, who knows; but knowing he\’s just waiting, lurking, and that inevitably, he WILL find that one spot on my bod that doesn\’t smell like paint thinner and nail varnish. He\’s driving me nuts.

How does Rambo keep flying around, for Pete\’s sake? He\’s got enough of my blood in him now to start his own Vampire Take Out.


That\’s it. I\’m outta here. I\’m checking in to one of those places where they leave the light on for ya…only, I\’m calling ahead. NO LIGHTS please! Rambo\’s watching…good Grief, I hope he can\’t read.

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