The Fly Who Mugged Me

It’s 3 a.m. and I’m being held captive in my own bedroom by these B-movie villain mosquitoes that are attacking me with laser like precision. I feel like I'm sleeping in a hornets nest and that’s only a slight neurotic exaggeration. Why are there mosquitoes in my bedroom harassing me like I’m a beautiful Dominican girl with an amazing, gravity defying Puerto Rican ass in too-tight sweats that say Juicy on the back and a low-hanging U-neck t-shirt, walking through an entire city of construction workers? (I wonder if Puerto Rican men ever say “Damn, that girl’s got a fine Jewish ass. I mean there are plenty of Jewish women that I can personally attest to having gawker worthy booties but I don’t think Jewish women’s asses have ever been used as an adjective. I’m also not sure if there is a proper plural form of booty. I don’t have the Sir-Mix-A-lot-to English dictionary with me, but I digress.) 

 There is no reason for my exposed arms to be tortured like I'm a character on Breaking Bad and I have threatened to destroy the meth lab. I grew up in the suburbs, with a front and back lawn and trees and bluebirds and fresh air and I never got bit up by mosquitoes. I’m currently cowering under my covers in the fifth floor of my apartment that is facing the brick wall of the Verizon building. I don't live in a bunk on top of a hill off the lake at a Jewish sleep-away camp where British counselors take out their indentured servitude frustrations by giving kids wedgies; and boys eagerly discover their boners for the first time under the soft caress of the peaceful moonlight; before waking up in their stiffly made, hospital cornered bed and being forced to jump in a cold lake.

I live in New York City where the only wildlife consists of drunken guys on the prowl in plaid shirts chasing lionesses in short skirts and heels. (I think it was some time in 2011 when Mayor Bloomberg instituted the men of a certain young age must wear plaid shirts rule, but I digress again to take my mind off the merciless attack that is underway.) What the hell is going on and why is the dog lying peacefully next to me not suffering the same slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as I? Hath he not skin? Hath he not blood? If you bite him, hath he not swell up? 

 I do everything for this so-called man’s best friend and the one time I need him, he’s literally curled up in a ball looking at me with the same heavy eyes I once had while listening to a professor lecture me about geology at an  8 a.m. class. This is actually worse than water boarding. I feel like I should have Sally Struthers next to my bed filming an infomercial as I lay twitching and flinching awaiting the next attack on my exposed skin, as Sarah McLaughlin’s haunting music is playing.  These predatory mosquitoes, or what seems like one tiny super mosquito, are acting like my own private shark from Jaws.  Except I’m not at the beach where I can just take one step backwards, I'm floating in the water trying to sleep. 

After turning on the lights to type, I realize it’s just biding its time, hovering high above me in my room. It’s gazing down at my CD collection that has gathered dust over the past few years and is probably judging me for purchasing the 80s Time Life Collection. It’s just waiting for me to turn off the lights again and try and sleep so it can make a dive bomb for my arms like a World War 2 Kamikaze pilot with a nagging wife at home, student loans, a defaulted mortgage and a VHS copy of the film Gung Ho (with the prescient knowledge that the VHS won’t be invented for another 40 years but still angered by the depiction on the box.)

Tomorrow, if I can lift my swollen arms, I’m going to have to go on Craigslist and put an ad out for a crotchety, old mosquito killer who spent time in Africa and was probably a consultant on the Harrison Ford film, The Mosquito Coast.  I assume he’ll show up and scratch his nails on my wall to announce his seeking the reward.  He’ll probably kill a bug and dissect it only to find out it’s not the mosquito we are searching for. As we reluctantly begin to bond while camped out on my comforter, he’ll show me the bite scars that have ravaged his knees and turned him away from society to seek solace in the bottle.

As my unlikely bond develops with  this hate-filled, crusty, world weary, swamp shanty singing wackadoodle, he will eventually and unintentionally,  force me to face my fears and ultimately become the man I was meant to be. (Either that or he'll want me to step on his nuts or flog him while he wears a Catholic school girl skirt. I mean I did meet him on Craigslist.)   If I survive tonight, I’m sure he would want me to stock up on netting, traps and some explosives; or at least a can of Off.  As I lay here sweating in sweats with the sheet pulled over my head I can make out the feint sound of buzzing beginning to build up again and my eyes dart frantically across the battlefield that has become my room trying to locate it. This flying thing, this perfect stinging machine, simply refuses to die, or at least fly into the hall for fucks sake. Looks like I'm gonna need a bigger bed.