Cruz

[Drunk Monk]

There is a dark side to the Cruz.  There are a lot of parasites.  I remember having issues with this a quarter century ago.  Not only are there the homeless and the egocentric hippie kids, there are the fleas.  I am at war with fleas.  The pom and the cat bring them in despite regular doses of frontline and advantage.  My veg family doesn't attract them like me.  They don't have all that tasty fish oil and rich shellfish bottom feeder sludge (like biscuits and gravy of the sea) coursing through their veins.  Cruz fleas are highly evolved.  They can penetrate the thickest sun-tanned and sea-toughened surfer skin, straight through the wetsuit even.  They can cope with the wickedly illicit bloodstreams of Cruzians, dropping a bolus of non-coagulant that expands to 10 times their mass, like PPFY dropping a post-hulkburger bomb at Lynch manor, leaving an itchy scar the size of a fava bean that lasts for weeks.  And they target the soft and tenders.  You know what I mean.  Embarrassing places to scratch.  Man, I wish I could be that toxic to my enemies.

We've had another outbreak of sand fleas.  This year is particularly bad.  Maybe it's due to the superbloom.  Whatever the case, I can't blame the pets because we have no pets right now.  Even Stacy got a few bites.  I got tore up, like always. Dozens of bites all over my body - my flanks, tops of my shoulders, backs of my upper arms, ankles. Looks like the freakin measles.  I soak in epsom salts to sterilize the wounds (only stings for a little bit) and then bathe in bug repellent, sting stop, and tiger balm every night now.  There must be a massive hive under the bungalow this time of year.  

I feel like Lot when he was cursed with all the open sores.  But it's so good to be home.