Bug guts

I'm wondering whether or not I should make myself another pot of tea. Sure, it's late but I've fallen into my regular old nocturnal schedule. I've always been like this. The only part that's new is that I can no longer survive on four hours of sleep so I lose my mornings. I eat breakfast around noonish, then I eat dinner at the regular time and then I'm hungry sometime around midnight.

The couch in the garage has spawned a cloud of moths that have me paranoid. I don't want them anywhere near my sweaters, my pashmina scarves, my knitting wool, the awesome tweed I splurged and paid an arm and a leg for so that I can make myself a tweed suit of awesomeness. I'm politically, ethically and environmentally opposed to cashmere, but I'll be damned if I let the bastards eat the sweater I got last Christmas.

I kill every one that I see. I lie in wait for them and that's where primitive instinct kicks in. I pounce, whacking them into the wall or plucking them out of mid air with my hands, squishing them between my fingers, until they're nothing but smeared moth dust.

I do the same with mosquitoes too. They've been unusually bad this year and I've been swarmed several times. They leave their signature marks all over me which leave me red, puffy, itchy and incapacitated.

The reason why I have functioned so well during the past week is that I've spent the majority of my time under the influence of heavy doses of antihistamines, which has made for more than a few dopey moments. I blame that for the downward turn this blog has taken recently. It's about as good a reason as any.