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August 28, 2009



Rhapsodic musings on your comfy humidity does noting to dull the itching memory of the hordes of flying insects for whom a sweat-beaded human is nothing more than a moist, blood-filled, salted meal. My recent visit to humidity central, southern Florida, was typically up to scratch. One romantic evening stroll along the beach and I was pocked like a golf ball and my blood ran thick with mosquito DNA. The blanket analogy is better if your grandmother's knitting is make of wool, then dragged through poison ivy.

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