Hey there! It’s me—the mosquito bite chilling on your inner thigh. How’s it hanging? Never mind, I can see from here.

I bet you regret wearing shorts now, huh? Look, I understand—you find out that Star Wars is playing at that new outdoor cinema, you’re heading over with the new girl from the office, it’s a warm enough evening. And hey, you’ve been hitting the StairMaster pretty hard, right? Well, I’ve got some unfortunate news for you.

Pride leads to compromise. Compromise leads to shorts. Shorts lead to mosquitos. Mosquitos lead to suffering.

And make no mistake about it, you pride cup was full to the brim. Your local government was already filling out the necessary paperwork for a large-scale pride parade. You had so much pride going on that the world’s leading zoologists started drafting new collective nouns for lions. The second you walked through that park gate and found a patch of grass to settle in, you were scanning the crowd for jeans. Idiot here. Moron there. Look at that jerk! Wow, sweatpants? Really? They’re all too warm! Comfort was an Instagram influencer, and she was following only you.

Then the movie started. And you were as blissfully unaware of another mistake as you had been about your first shorts-coming. You picked the wrong movie. And when I say you picked the wrong movie, I mean you picked one of the greatest movies of all time. During the previews you had an arm around your date, and you were sharing popcorn, and you shot each other cute, knowing smiles. And then that John Williamsy orchestral music hit. That was when your arm returned to you, the popcorn was handed over, and you leaned forward like it was late in the fourth quarter.

Maybe it was when the gang got caught in the Death Star’s trash compactor. Maybe it was when TIE fighters started systematically destroying X-wings. Maybe it was when your date pretended to go pee so that she could complain about you to one of her friends. But at some point during the struggle between Empire and Rebellion, a mosquito landed on you and had its way with your leg. And so, here I am! And not only do I want to thank you for your hospitality; but I also want to relay one very simple message:

If you scratch me now I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

I know you want to. I know you know how good it would feel just rake those fingernails over my big red lump right now. But I also know how confident you are in your determination not to. I get it—a guy who wears shorts on dates definitely knows how to throw the blinders on. If I had your midichlorian count handy I bet it would speak to your overwhelming mental resolve. Fortunately for me and my continued survival on your leg, I’ve got a plan. In a word? Nightfall.

That’s when you’re at your weakest. And for at least the next three nights, that’s when I’ll strike. For those 20-25 hours spent in bed, I’ll be there—demanding your attention like a 2am push notification on your arrogant Samsung Galaxy S10; whispering deceit into the air around you while you drift in and out of sleep.

Ding.

Ding.

Itch.

Could it be the girl from the office? Did your favorite athlete just like one of your tweets? Could one scratch really satisfy you? You don’t know. You can’t know. You won’t know… unless you give in to the power of the dark side.


And now a quick joke...

“Purity Ring”? No thank you, my Brita pitcher and I are just friends.