The Unbearable Burden of Massively Sweet Blood

This tragic tale transpires on an early autumn evening, at one of Alice Bailey’s exclusive dinner parties.

I was ecstatic to receive an invitation to attend this event, however I was ill-prepared for the twisted fate that awaited me.

Upon arrival, Alice altered the trajectory of my entire life with three words:

“We dine outside.”

In hindsight, I should have fled. I should have known what this meant. That the mosquitos would also be enjoying an outdoor dinner party.

But I never could have imagined the evening that ensued; that I’d leave the party so lost and so alone, so unsure of my identity.

When I was in the second grade, a classmate announced that he was going to be the “best in the world” at basketball one day. 

The class was awestruck to be surrounded by such talent, so I took the opportunity to announce that I too would one day be the “best in the world” at something: playing guitar. 

My classmate, LeBron James, went on to become a decent basketball player. I quit guitar lessons after only a few weeks. 

I’ll find something else.

As I grew up, I felt the clock ticking. I was running out of time. I was never going to be the “best in the world” at anything.

I’ve struggled to come to terms with this realization. A cheesy podcast told me that “I am the best in the world at being me.”

“That’s probably true,” I thought to myself, “But who am I?”

I followed Alice out the back door and stepped onto her porch. 

The sunlight shimmered in the evening sky while a soft breeze cooled the air.

It was a perfect night. 

But hardly thirty seconds of time had elapsed before I felt the first itch of the night on my right ankle. 

So it begins. 

I am a mosquito magnet. And I’ve always been a mosquito magnet.

Legend has it that I emerged from my mother’s womb with a mosquito bite.

My grandma thinks it’s because I am “so sweet”, and to me that is the most plausible explanation.

Because if I step outside even for a second, they will smell me, they will track me, and they will suck my sweet sweet blood.

Sweet guys finish last. 

It was only recently that I realized the sick irony of the situation. 

I was the “best in the world” at getting bit by mosquitos. 

At first, this excited me. 

I imagined myself competing in an Olympic mosquito bite event. The athletes stand in a large glass container full of mosquitos for one minute — whoever emerges with the most bites is victorious.

I see myself atop the podium, the gold medal around my neck, the American flag draped behind me while my country looks on proudly.

But the International Olympic Committee has not returned any of my emails, so I’ve given up on this fantasy.

The truth is that I’m cursed.

I’m the “worst in the world” at avoiding mosquitos.

I looked around the party. It’s always the same at these events. 

Everybody else was smiling, drinking, laughing  — enjoying the beautiful evening, completely oblivious of my sacrifice. 

Completely unaware that I’m serving as a human shield for them, taking on the entire mosquito attack so that the party can go on. Nobody else gets a single bite.

And then suddenly I’m a “buzzkill” or a “party-pooper” if I suggest moving indoors.

You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Am I a hero for protecting the party? 

That’s not for me to decide.

But yes.

And the idea of being a hero is certainly alluring.

I imagined myself bitten by a radioactive mosquito and developing powers to become the next great superhero, Mosquito Man.

When I pitched this idea to Marvel, they were extremely skeptical. 

“What would his powers be? How would he fight crime?” 

“Well, did you know mosquitos are the most deadly animal in the world?” I ask, “Mosquito Man would be no different.”

But Marvel was not impressed. 

“Do you mean that he would carry infectious diseases and pass them to the criminals?” they asked. 

A valid question. 

“Uh, yeah,” I answered, “Both Malaria and West Nile Virus would be extremely effective at stopping crime.”

We were not on the same page. 

The meeting ended with Marvel insisting that Mosquito Man would simply have too many weaknesses. 

“Maybe,” I countered, “But don’t all superheroes have weaknesses?”

But even as I pled my case, I knew they were right. 

Superman’s weakness is Kryptonite, a rare element found on his home planet, Krypton, prior to its destruction.

Mosquito Man’s weakness is OFF! Repellent, a bug spray found at every major retailer and convenience store in the United States.

It would never work.

“Hey Max,” said Alice as she tapped my shoulder, “I want you to meet my friend Tina. She just moved here from Toronto.”

A tall brunette girl introduced herself as Tina. I reached out to shake her hand and that’s when I noticed. 

On her wrist — a red, slightly swollen elevated patch of skin.

It was unmistakable.

A fresh mosquito bite.

Hm.

Moments later I noticed as she scratched her knee.

How curious.

“Tina, are you getting bit up?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “Mosquitos love me.”

That’s cute.

There’s always a hot shot who thinks mosquitos love them. Until they spend an evening around me. 

They may receive a bite or two in collateral damage, but that’s about it. The mosquitos aren’t going to fill up on bread when the wagyu beef buffet is open.

Something about this girl seemed different though. 

“How many bites have you gotten?” I ask.

“Six so far.” she said.

Six?!

I only had five. How was this possible?

Six was more than just collateral damage. Six was a respectable number.

I began to rationalize the situation.

Tina was wearing a short dress with her shoulders and arms exposed. 

If I had that much exposed skin, I’d probably be dead.

“Oh! There’s seven!” she announced.

Preposterous. 

I excused myself for a minute and rolled up my sleeves while I walked to the edge of the deck and stared out at the yard.

“Alright guys, here I am,” I mutter, “All yours.”

Sure enough, a mosquito buzzed by my nose and I watched as it landed on the back of my hand.

I pretended not to notice as he filled his belly with my blood.

“Tell your friends,” I whispered as he flew away, “The buffet is open.”

I stood still for another 30 seconds and felt another itch on my elbow.

Too easy.

And then I made the announcement.

“I just got two bites over here, so I’m at seven as well.”

“Oh, I actually got one more on my shoulder,” said Tina, “So I’m at eight now.”

You’ve gotta be shitting me! 

Was this Canadian bitch’s blood sweeter than mine?

It was on.

As the evening went on, so did the battle. Tina was tenacious, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

The lead swung back and forth like a pendulum and we remained focused intently on the competition while the dinner party continued around us in the background.

After dessert, guests began to leave one by one until only Tina and I remained.

I could tell Alice was ready for us to leave. She yawned and looked at her watch.

But I wasn’t going anywhere until I had secured victory.

It was late. The conversation was dead. We sat on the porch in the dark, essentially in silence — only broken by the occasional announcement of a new bite.

“Aha!” I exclaimed as I swatted at my knee, “That’s 18!”

Alice stood up.

“Ok that’s enough,” she said, “It’s time for you guys to go.”

She grabbed Tina and I by the hands and dragged us around to the front of the house.

“I’m sorry,” said Alice, “It’s late and I’ve got an appointment in the morning. This was fun though. Thanks for coming, we’ll have to –”

“Nineteen!” I exclaimed!

Alice sighed.

“You’re the fucking worst,” she said, as she stormed inside.

As soon as she was gone, Tina and I tallied up our bites.

I had 19.

But Tina had 20.

No. That couldn’t be.

We counted again.

But the results were the same.

20–19.

“Shit!” I yelled.

Tina shrieked victoriously while I kicked the trash can in dismay.

Then Alice stuck her head out the window.

“Hey! Go the fuck home!” she yelled at us.

I was devastated. 

I composed myself long enough to walk Tina to her car where I shook her hand in a display of sportsmanship.

She competed admirably.

Looking at her under the streetlight, I realized for the first time how attractive she was. I saw what the mosquitos saw in her, and I wondered if maybe she saw the same in me.

I said, “You know, if we had a baby, it would probably be pretty sweet.”

She said, “ew,” and got in her car.

I walked away feeling dejected.

My entire body itched. My soul itched.

Whether I liked it or not, being the mosquito guy was a part of my identity. But now, it felt as though a mosquito had landed on my soul and sucked away that piece of me. 

But I didn’t even want that piece! So why did I feel like shit?

I stood outside my car and stared at my reflection in the window.

Who even are you?

I was unrecognizable.

A few seconds later, headlights approached as Tina drove towards me. Her radio was blasting music into the night.

She slowed down as she passed me, making sure that I heard:

“Oh Canada!”

A single tear streamed down my cheek.

She won gold.

And I let my country down.