I may have failed to mention here that our school is currently experiencing a serious mosquito infestation. The teacher's room seems to have become a small mosquito airport with the tiny buzzing bloodsuckers taking off all over the room and whizzing through flight patterns that drive us all mad. One of our coworkers has taken to having what seems at first to be seizures, but turns out to simply be an alarming outburst at being swarmed by mosquitoes. She attempts to kill them with folders, with books, with whatever happens to be closest at hand. She just whacks things in a windmill fashion whenever she sees one. And honestly, she probably kills a number of them with each smack of her computer monitor, desk, wall, chair, and neighboring coworker.
No amount of repellent seems to have any effect on them. The school has had an extermination company come twice, but we sure couldn't tell. One day I decided I had had enough and made it a point to kill every mosquito I could see. I slapped, clapped, whacked, flailed, jumped while slapping, stood on chairs while clapping, and took the life from every one I could. My total at the end of the day was 104. Seriously. They're everywhere.
And by everywhere, I mean mostly in the bathroom. The other day I walked into the middle stall and happened to notice a mosquito sitting inside the toilet bowl just above the water line. I stopped and weighed the responsibility of a wasted flush or a mosquito bite on my butt or elsewhere that might be inconvenient to claw at in public. I flushed. And good thing, too, because when I flushed three other mosquitoes exited the toilet bowl. I clapped two of them dead, and smothered one into my blue jeans on my left thigh. I couldn't see that fourth bugger, so I sat down to, well, think about some things. And then I was not thinking about anything except pulling up my pants when I looked down and hovering right between my thighs was that offensive, forward, and downright perverted bug, his flight path aimed directly for, well, not. my. knees.
So I freaked out, as one is wont to do when an insect that bites, draws blood, and leaves an itchy, swollen trademark behind is zoning in on your hoo! ha! I swatted, I snapped my legs together, stood up, and tried to pull my pants up all at the same time. Have you ever tried to pull your pants up while your thighs are making out? Yeah. Awkward. And now I fully understand what stalls are really for. After I succeeded in wearing my clothes properly, I was overcome with worry that I hadn't gotten rid of the mosquito, but had inadvertently closed him into my pants, where he would be free to do his damage anyway. What to do? Do I pull my pants back down to get it out if it was indeed in there? Or doing that would I simply make myself vulnerable to another attack? I finally decided that I would do the most practical thing. I would kill it, whether it was there or not. And so I began slapping myself. Where? Well, wherever he could be. In other words, I pretty much spanked myself from my butt all the way down to my ankles, front and back.
Do I even need to say it?
WHAT THE CRAP? And here's an even bigger What The Crap, because these mosquitoes have pushed me over the edge. They have me... wishing for winter. I know. Seeing as how I loathe winter with all my being because one of my least favorite things is being cold, I'm pretty desperate. Sometimes, when a mosquito flies in front of me in class, I feel some ninja assassin part of my brain take over, and I quit whatever it is I'm doing and chase the thing down until it has been destroyed. It's entertaining for the kids, anyway. But seriously. What the crap, mosquitoes? Stop already.
