I just killed a mosquito. Between my palm and the living room wall there was really no chance for the guy. Or girl. Probably girl. Mosquitoes love my sweet, sweet flesh. This is something else Gavin gets from me (besides his blue eyes and curly -- curly! -- hair). They love him, too. Especially his head. They totally take advantage of the fact that he has so little hair. So if killing mosquitoes is wrong, I don't want to be right.
When I was a kid my dad would knock over lamps and break shit to kill a mosquito in the house. It was all a little much back then, but in retrospect it makes perfect sense. A mosquito in the house is a Grade-A Emergency in my book. I absolutely cannot fall asleep if I know there's a mosquito in the room. Stacy, alas, has a bad habit of letting into the house. She doesn't, like, beckon them in or anything, but she thinks nothing of holding the door open while she takes the trash out or while she's waiting for the dog to come in from outside. Best case scenario: Gavin acquires my vigilance sans my neuroses.
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