It's the rainy season once again, and mosquitoes are once again in the air. I HATE mosquitoes. I hate how they fly around, darting here and there just beyond reach. I hate it when they buzz in my ear. And I most certainly hate the itchy welts that they leave after they suck my blood! But aside from the annoyance, mosquitoes also spread disease; malaria, dengue, and encephalitis are some of the more commonly known mosquito-borne diseases.
I absolutely despise those foul creatures. I don't care if they're only doing what nature and instinct tell them to do, I want to wipe them off the face of the earth!
That is why I am always ready to kill the first mosquito I see. I don't care if my hands get red and sore from all the smacking. I don't care if they get all bloody and grimy from the crushed black carcasses of the unlucky mosquito that wasn't quite fast enough to escape my wrath.
Bottles of Raid or Baygon don't last too long in our house; I ensure that substantial amounts are dumped on known and suspected mosquito hideouts. I don't care if I get an asthma attack, I want all those mosquitoes dead!
But even with all the pesticide I've dumped, even with all the mosquitoes I've killed with my bare hands, with my slippers, with a fly swatter, with a pillow, with a book, with a water gun, with fire, even with the freakin' kitchen sink, they just keep coming and coming. Like the unstoppable tide they come year after year, until we decided to go after the root of the problem.
Mosquitoes, like all animals, don't just appear from nowhere. They first enter the world as babies, those cute little wriggly thingys that infest the pools of stagnant water that collect around our house. Adult mosquitoes may be quick and stealthy enough to evade active pursuit, but their poor little babies are sitting ducks, like fish in a barrel, trapped like rats, and whatever other cliche you can insert here. So we dumped the water in the cans, in the boots, in the flower pots. Anything that had even a drop of water was drained. Countless little mosquito babies perished in one, swift, stroke.
Over time the mosquito problem died down. The buzzing gave way to silence. The welts no longer appeared. The odd mosquito reappears from time to time, but it is quickly and efficiently dispatched. There is no longer any stagnant water in our home, no place for mosquitoes to breed.
In the all-out war I declared against the mosquito pestilence in our home, I had won.
I absolutely despise those foul creatures. I don't care if they're only doing what nature and instinct tell them to do, I want to wipe them off the face of the earth!
That is why I am always ready to kill the first mosquito I see. I don't care if my hands get red and sore from all the smacking. I don't care if they get all bloody and grimy from the crushed black carcasses of the unlucky mosquito that wasn't quite fast enough to escape my wrath.
Bottles of Raid or Baygon don't last too long in our house; I ensure that substantial amounts are dumped on known and suspected mosquito hideouts. I don't care if I get an asthma attack, I want all those mosquitoes dead!
But even with all the pesticide I've dumped, even with all the mosquitoes I've killed with my bare hands, with my slippers, with a fly swatter, with a pillow, with a book, with a water gun, with fire, even with the freakin' kitchen sink, they just keep coming and coming. Like the unstoppable tide they come year after year, until we decided to go after the root of the problem.
Mosquitoes, like all animals, don't just appear from nowhere. They first enter the world as babies, those cute little wriggly thingys that infest the pools of stagnant water that collect around our house. Adult mosquitoes may be quick and stealthy enough to evade active pursuit, but their poor little babies are sitting ducks, like fish in a barrel, trapped like rats, and whatever other cliche you can insert here. So we dumped the water in the cans, in the boots, in the flower pots. Anything that had even a drop of water was drained. Countless little mosquito babies perished in one, swift, stroke.
Over time the mosquito problem died down. The buzzing gave way to silence. The welts no longer appeared. The odd mosquito reappears from time to time, but it is quickly and efficiently dispatched. There is no longer any stagnant water in our home, no place for mosquitoes to breed.
In the all-out war I declared against the mosquito pestilence in our home, I had won.
