Impregnation

I have been eaten alive. I can promise you I am not being the slightest bit overdramatic when I say that I will probably have to have my legs amputated shortly because I will rip them off with pliers if someone doesn't do it for me.

Ants.

They got me. Or maybe it was mosquitos. I'm not an entomologist and WebMD can't tell me what it is when the only description I can yield is, "It's itchy." I left out the part about it being red and raised because that's basically what "It's itchy." means. Obviously.

I'm sure I'm about to become a mother of some tiny pestilence, in the style of the Surinam Toad. Only I didn't want these children. This was nonconsensual.

Not the kind of nonconsensual like, "Oh, it broke." But the kind like, "Hey. You're drunk at a party, I'm drunk at a party. How you doin'?"

Tragic.

They have anti-itch stuff in the store below my dorm. But that requires money. And I have literally none of that. I'm about a minute away from asking a homeless man for spare change.

So here I sit, scratching away, patiently awaiting motherhood.