We've gotta talk.
This is getting ridiculous. You show up in my room out of nowhere at all hours of the night. I never see you in broad daylight. Are you ashamed of me? Why don't you ever invite me out? Do you even want me to meet your friends? I'M NOT JUST SOME MOSQUITO'S MIDNIGHT SNACK, YOU KNOW. And yeah, I know, I said I didn't care at first but GUESS WHAT FEELINGS CHANGE. Maybe it has something to do with the amount of bites, but whose fault is that? Once or twice a week I'd see you, but now it's every night, all night, CONSTANT BITES. And it's not like I've tried to say no. I've started sleeping fully clothed from toes to wrists and now you've decided you're bold enough to move on to my FACE? My friends are starting to get suspicious. It's not every day someone shows up with a giant welt on their face from an "allergic reaction". I told them I moved on days ago. I refuse to let this keep happening. If I could turn back time I would've never opened the window.
But you showed up, didn't you?
You just had to come in. It was muggy. You were really into that puddle that had formed outside. It was starting to get cold. I didn't see you. I wasn't even looking for you.
But you showed up.
I just want a peaceful disconnection. This isn't something that needs to keep happening. I woke up with eight bites this morning, one of which was in a place that I'm honestly not sure HOW you got to. Don't you get it? I DON'T WANT YOU ANYMORE. And just because you're agile and flexible doesn't mean that I do. I've swatted at you before and I'll do it again. If I could find you in the crevices of the bachelor pad-esque ceiling that is my bedroom, I would swat the hell out of you all day. But what do you do? You hide. You hide, Steve. You're afraid. Of what, Steve? Of commitment?
If you really wanted to make this work you'd quit the bullshit and be consistent. But instead I get one night of peace and the next I'm spraying hairspray at 4 in the morning trying to get your stuck to the wall so that I can smash your tiny blood-sucking body. I don't know what to do anymore. Every time I scratch those welts, I think of you. Of all the shit you put me through. Well bad news, baby. I'm leaving. THE COUNTRY. To a place where it's too far for you to fly, too nice for you to live, because you don't deserve it. Croatia doesn't want you and neither do I. Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't email me. Don't comment on this blog post. You know what? I hope you find happiness. I hope you find what you're looking for in a meal - something quick, easy, and eager to please. I hope you find a nice Bulgarian or another tourist to feast on once I leave.
Because you can kiss this palatable, O+ plasma goodbye, sucker.
Professional writer, designer, and do-it-aller. Remote Year citizen/alum. Currently living in San Francisco and probably trying to avoid the terrifying amounts of pigeons.