I have been home from the dogs' walk for no more than 60 seconds and I've already popped a Benadryl.
THE MOSQUITOES ARE TRYING TO KILL ME.
In my blissed out appreciation of summertime out at the house, free from brown, crispy botanical matter, miserably cold snow and 50 mph winds, I didn't take into account the mosquitoes. The bazillion mosquitoes. The bazillion thirsty and tenacious mosquitoes. The persistent little fuckers.
There is one particular segment of the dogs' walk, almost a half of a mile from the house, that is MISERABLE. The folks who own the land adjacent to that section of road own horses, so there are watering troughs and plenty of standing water. I am sure that has something to do with how many mosquitoes populate that little section of our walk. I have so many bites!
The Benadryl is already starting to make me woozy. I suppose the effect is being amplified by the Samuel Adams I took it with. I was going to try and get a couple of hours of work done on The Thesis. No, really. I was. However, now, clumsily flopping into bed sounds so much better than carefully entering data into a spreadsheet. AND HAVING TO SIT UPRIGHT. That doesn't sound so good, either.
Eeewww...there is a big blood smear on my sock where I must have smooshed a mosquito. Evil, itchy mosquito.