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I have fleas.

The love of a cat can be difficult to understand exactly. Mine, for example, likes to bring me dead mice, birds, squirrels, and even bats from time to time. Others just like to snuggle and purr (he does that, too, of course). A few weeks ago, as an act of ultimate kitteh luffs, he brought me fleas.

I love Marcel, really I do. But I tried really hard to hate him for this. (The problem is he's too damned cute & sweet to hate....) All the same, whether I love or hate the damnable fuzzhead, he got my bed infested with fleas. And possibly my bedroom. And maybe even the entire basement Parker & I live in. Sigh.


So it's been a bit weird since I figured out the flea problem. Changing sheets every night, vacuuming tons, setting up a dehumidifier to control the fleas some. I honestly haven't personally found any more on my bed, but who knows....

I'm paranoid with formication--everywhere I go, I'm convinced there's fleas on me. Anytime some hair on my forearm shifts, I'm convinced it's a flea. Every random itch I can't shake, same thing.

To be fair, two of the times I felt those sensations turned out to be actual fleas--that's how I found out there were fleas in my bed in the first place. It's still kind of driving me crazy though.


Anyway, right now I'm upstairs blogging on the TV computer instead of down in the basement. I just laid down some flea-deathing carpet powder in the basement so I had to vacate entirely.

That shit was crazy. It kinda smelled nice. But then it got all airborne as I "scratched it deep into the carpet fibers where the eggs and larva are" with a stiff broom. Then it turned on me, and it tried to kill me, too. Not cool, man. It gave me a mean cough. I'll probably be dead by morning, no worries.

So I'm up here while I wait for the Halabja massacre downstairs to settle out. (oh yeah, I went there.) I'll probably wait until I come home later to actually vacuum it.
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Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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