To a mosquito, I have always been the holy grail, the Mecca, the Wailing Wall. To a mosquito, taking a chunk of my forearm or calf is akin to the feeling one gets upon scaling their first mountain, puckering up for the first time, or meeting their red-haired piano-playing idol. If two mosquitos were having a conversation, one would most likely say to the other: "She's the cat's meow." Mosquitos love antiquated idioms. Upon my arrival in Guadalajara, the mosquitos had a giant fiesta. This is Mexico afterall, so they threw their sombrero'd heads back in hearty guffaws as shots of
[View Full Entry]