Well, damn it, I'm dry. All my blood is gone. Sucked out by the black flies that inhabit this peninsula. Why did I move back here? Again? I don't know. What I do know, however, is that the corn that I planted today better taste fucking great. Like blow your mind, better than sex (in prison) great.
Bugs don't like me. It's not that I don't get bitten, just that I get bitten less. Some people might remember Visco's camp, me and Luis the crazy Spaniard on the dock. His back awash in a bloody torrent, me calm and collected and black fly free.
OK, so maybe I made that up. Or maybe anyone next to a Spaniard is safe. I don't know. What I do know is that today was bad for bugs, as bad as I've ever seen it. And I'm not excited about it.
All I want to do is make them all pay. With their lives. Thus my desire for a sixth sense, no more of this clotted blood to find out (too late) that some fly chowed on your flesh. I want to know, in advance, where they will land and take W-like preemptive action. Do them in, smash them, pound them. Maybe even torture them a bit. That would be nice.
4 comments:
I'm totally on board with torturing the black flies. That's what they do to me. The little bastards don't even bite me, they just fly around my head, dive bombing my face. It makes me crazy. I'd rather have them land on me, bite me and then fly away. But nope, they just circle my body over and over and threaten to bite. Jerks.
They bite you now because you left Maine for too long. They sense that you have at least lost some of your Mainerness, they would not go after their own, after all.
Your site is on top of my favourites - Great work I like it.
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