Fucking bed bugs.
There are not enough curses on earth. Our home is infested. We feel betrayed, etc. We will probably have to move, auto-defenestrate, scrub ourselves with kerosene and be reskinned. These are the only real options.
We found out about our bitey little guests yesterday, when one of them popped up on Sgt. Lucky’s pillow, sharpening his little knife and fork and inquiring if anyone had seen the tabasco. Then we found one on my bed pants. Then we pulled the bed away from the wall and found four of the little fuckers making merry in the crack of the box spring.
We managed to stay in denial til we found those four.
“That’s not a bed bug,” Sgt. Lucky said. “It’s too flat. I think they’re round.” (They’re not.)
“It’s not a bed bug,” I said. “We found one like it two months ago. Just the one! No bites!”
No bites two months ago. Lately, I’ve had the oddest problem with hives. I would have suspected bed bugs, but Sgt. Lucky didn’t have any problems, so I figured I’d developed a new and more interesting allergy to something in our detergent.
Turns out, some people don’t react to bed bug bites, and since Sgt. Lucky isn’t allergic to anything, it makes sense that he wouldn’t have problems with those either. Seriously, I think the man could ride a cat through a field of fiddlehead ferns while chewing on golden-rod and rubbing penicillin into his eyeballs and be just fine. His immune system is a holdover from the 19th century, before everyone had autoimmune this and allergy that.
Anyway, Lucky spent the day talking to the landlord and the exterminator and I spent the day washing everything we own. I have done twelve loads of laundry so far and gone to the dry cleaners twice. Also, we’re awaiting our second delivery from Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Soon, soon, we will be wrapped in bed bug proof covers and infused with essence of diatomaceous earth. This is war, fuckers. You have been warned.
Image via BedbugGuru.com.