I recently made the 400-plus mile drive to Southern California for the wedding of my oldest friend (we’ve known each other since 7th grade, went to middle school, high school, and college together); at the tail end of my trip I decided to visit David’s gravesite; it’s been a while, probably close to four years (because I moved up north, and because of 22.5 months of prison). I just wanted to say hi and tell him I love him and bring it all home in a visceral way in preparation for writing the previous entry.
His gravestone had grass intruding on it, so I began to brush it off. It was pretty dark out. I felt something on my hand and arm. Ants! Shitloads of them! Crawling and biting! I quickly brushed them off, but I had at least 11 significant bites–one of the little bastards was even latched onto my skin. I know they were just protecting their home, so I can’t hold it against them. But hot damn did it sting!
Easily hundreds of them, and so very angry!
This was the next day, and shows a couple of the 11 bad bites; but they later looked a helluva lot worse, and I still have scars/scabs more than a week after the fact!
This incident is symbolic of nothing.
THE REWILD WEST 