In addition to co-workers known to be a menace to mental health, we now have mosquitoes in our cube farm. What the hell? I work on the sixth floor of a skyscraper in the middle of the financial district of San Francisco; the guys trying to deliver my new computer couldn’t get in for a month, but blood sucking parasites can? What’s with that? I have visions of skeeters cruising up in the elevator, stopping at our floor, “Thanks, I’ll get off here.”
When I first noticed a couple of them here, I thought I might be hallucinating, reverting to my Gulf Coast childhood. I was annoyed that if I was going to hallucinate I’d come up with mosquitoes instead of Rod Taylor.
But then I realized they really were mosquitoes, albeit tiny wimps unlike the great big honking predator ones from the swamps of my youth, so I squashed them. How gratifying.