After Ben the Exterminator visited this past Monday, I went five consecutive nights without a bite. "A few more nights," I was thinking, "and we can cautiously conclude that this is over." Last night, however, the bedbugs were up and at em. I woke up with a bite on my upper right arm, three on the back of my neck, and one on my lower lip.
My lower lip.
A bedbug got me, right on the kisser. Talk about adding new meaning to the notion of sucking face.
I have tried to convince myself that I was probably laying on my side, with my mouth pretty much touching the pillow or the bedsheet, and so my luscious, Botoxish lips were the most accessible flesh for some random bedbug in search of a meal. The other option, that a bug crawled onto and across my face, gazed lovingly at my impish-yet-pouty smile, and planted a tender chomp on my lower lip...it is almost too much to bear.
Today I vacuumed the room, the bed and the bookshelves with the intensity and anger of a frat boy who has realized that he had sex with the dog last night.
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