Last night, I dreamt that I was sleeping and then woke up (waking up in a dream while still dreaming is always trippy, no?). I woke up in my dream to find a mosquito resting on my breast while I was laying in bed.
It was one of those very large, talking mosquitoes that you sometimes meet in dreams. So, I started talking to the little fella, who said his name was Fred.
“I’m finished with your country and I’m leaving,” Fred said to me in a very deep, raspy voice with a hint of an accent. It sounded like Javier Bardem meets Tom Waits. Save for the fact that it was coming from a mosquito, the voice was actually pretty sexy.
As I lay there listening, Fred, that little bastard, proceeded to sting me before flying out of my window, leaving behind an itchy red bite on my right boob.
Now if this dream were really about a mosquito, we’d be good. Weird dreams that you can remember when you wake up make for quirky, entertaining stories you can tell to your friends and laugh about.
But this dream was not just about mosquitoes. Apparently my unconscious mind has created a hybrid of mosquito and man for me to dream about and made it an actual metaphor for my experiences this summer. Clever little unconscious, isn’t it?
Actual mosquitos have feasted on my flesh all summer to a ridiculous degree. They have stung me everywhere, repeatedly.
And men. Well, the experiences I’ve had with them over the summer have been about as annoying and as gratifying as mosquito bites.
I think Fred the Mosquito man was trying to tell me something. You see, while some girls have a “bad boy” problem, lately, I have a “project” problem. I seem drawn to those men who are lacking something within themselves and haven’t realized their full potential. Unfortunately, most of them don’t even have a full potential. These blood-sucking selfish specimens need constant ego stroking, pep talks and tending to and usually, when they’ve got what they needed, they sting me. I’m sure this habit of falling for ‘not quite right’ men says something about my masochistic personality, but that’s a whole other issue.
I’m not using stinging as an analogy for sex, either, because that would be a pretty awful way to describe sex. By “sting me” I mean they tend to do damage, emotionally.
I am now taking full responsibility for this. I have been too nice, too accommodating, too understanding. Too stupid. I’ve let those damn mosquitoes sting me over and over again.
There was a (literal) mosquito hiding in my room for the entire month of August. He was hungry for blood and when he got tired of dotting my body with his itchy red markings, he bit my forehead while I was sleeping, which is just bad manners. When I finally killed that fucker with my Breakfast at Tiffany’s novel, the mess its squashed carcass left behind was thrillingly disgusting. A huge bright red splatter of my own blood strewn across the wall. Never have I felt such joy after killing an insect or at the sight of blood.
Unfortunately, in real life, men are not mosquitoes, and most don’t have Javier Bardem/Tom Waits voices. You can’t just swat them away and when they sting you, they leave behind real emotional pain, which is harder to get rid of and way worse than an annoying red bump that fades in a week or so.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t kill any real men using a classic novel as my weapon, as I did my mosquito, but if I were a superhero, that is totally what my weapon of choice would be. I’d be called the Lit Bitch or something like that. What I do want to do is make a conscious effort to stay away from those men who I already know are “mosquitoes.” Lets face it, girls, deep down, we ALWAYS know when we’ve met one.
I’m also going to be more open to dating Italians here in Rome, because so far, I have pretty much avoided it. They can’t all be Don Juan style mammas boys who dress better than me, right?