All the mosquitos in my house go to my closet to live, and I don’t know why. All the other closets in the house are also dark. Really my roommates’ cats should be taking care of the problem, which seems to come on every year during the rainy season (yes, I have screens on my windows).
It’s not so much the blood sucking that bothers me, but rather the high-pitched ZIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ that wakes me up in the madrugada* all stressed and anxious. The experience is kind of the opposite of a nightmare in that first you were resting, wandering along in your peaceful subconscious rhythms, and then wakeness comes to you in that far-off, getting closer rush. But instead of your dark, peaceful bedroom, the reality that overcomes you is this agitating, disproportionately little thing buzzing around your face and penetrating your skin with a disease-ridden needle.
So every night now before I lay me down to sleep, I go into my closet to kill bugs. Rather than poisons or citronella, the best pest management technique has been pure body-crushing physics. My form, originally just whopping at them with a towel, has become more refined. I can actually execute some Mr. Miyagi-style moves sometimes… with my fingers, which is gross. But I take heart in thinking about how the blood I have just smeared across my hand is probably mine. Or else my roommates’ lazy-ass cats’.
Not my photo and definitely not my cat. (Taken from the blog Mythos & Rini; click photo for link.)
*Good Spanish word. Just to confirm your contextual inference, it means “middle of the night.”