Eeeeeek! EEE!

There are 50 cities and 301 towns in Massachusetts.

I did NOT create this drama.

Six are grappling with an outbreak of Eastern Equine Encephalitis (EEE )-infected mosquitoes, and one is at the epicenter of it all.

By now, you must know I attract drama. I couldn’t repel it with a lifetime supply of Off! Of course my town is the superstar of this shit show.

My little Jedi trying to fend off the little effers.

My freaking Footloose town–a town where you will miss the whole center if you blink. Somehow, those lethal little shits think it’s the place to be. They’re pulling all-nighters, using my citronella candles for mood lighting at their raves. Really, they’re the only ones who party it up in Easton on a Monday night or any night for that matter.

The state has labeled us as a “critical alert” town (there are only three others with that designation). There have been times that you can smell my son from a mile away because I have hosed him down with herbal insect repellent in a state of Mommy panic. The streets are empty from dusk until dawn–the peak hours of the mosquitoes’ drunken binges for blood. If I venture outside during prime biting hours, I beg for mercy during my 11:11 prayers if I stay up late enough to make them. What else am I supposed to do?

Tonight, Alex fell asleep to the loud hum of another aerial spraying of poison. I had to lug in all of his toys, create giant condoms for my herbs, and shut all sources of outside air off on a humid night to keep us pesticide-free. I love dealing with this after I work, cook dinner, and clean up my house that stays tidy for less than one minute on a good day. It’s just awesome.

Die, mosquitoes. Die.

End rant.

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