The mosquitoes come.

The drain is covered. The windows are grated. The doors are closed. And yet. Defying the principles of mass conversation, they materialize in droves. Each day, Theresa enters her bathroom, zapper in hand, battling valiantly for the right to shit in peace. Each day, into the fray. Each day, the mysterious mosquitoes decimated.

But Theresa and I left and

the mosquitoes came.

We approached the chamber with great trepidation, which was well-warranted. Population unchecked, the air buzzed thick with the beasts and we slammed the door shut as quickly as we peered in.

We reentered the room, electric racquets swinging, creating a racket between the crackles of sizzling mosquito bodies and our astounded yelps at the sheer number of creatures.

Following repeated advances and retreats the swarm subsided at last and the near hundred carcasses were washed down the drain and we remained, weary but victorious.

Yet our victory remains short-lived, for

the mosquitoes came


the mosquitoes will come again.

I live-snapped this, because apparently that’s what my life has come to. Here’s what you missed out if you aren’t following me:



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