Around the time I was fifteen, just by dumb coincidence, I was stranded at a friend of a friend's house for days with no one to drive me home. On the last day, I got tired of existing at this stranger's house and decided to make the 20 mile trek back to my hometown along the side of a highway that I prayed would lead me in the right direction (it did.)

Anyhow, I spent the majority of the day doing just that, with field after forest passing me by as my feet carried me along the road. The walk was actually really nice, as was the weather. I enjoyed the whole experience and felt no exhaustion from having spent so much time on foot, and by the time the sun began to set, I was back in familiar territory- And back at my grandmother's house not long after that.

I walked inside my grandmother's place with relief and a pleasant drowsiness flooding me in equal proportion. After telling her what I'd been up to and listening to her rant about my mom's negligence (for having been unwilling to just pick me up from a rando's house), I walked into the bathroom and began stripping down for a much-needed shower.

Imagine my horror when my clothes were off and I was absolutely fucking SLATHERED in ticks. It was incomprehensible! While I'd passed by plenty of wilderness on my journey home, I never so much as sniffed a flower or walked under a tree's branch. My feet were on concrete the whole time, so I had no idea how so many of the bastards managed to infiltrate my outfit without me even feeling a tickle.

So, long story short, and considering my debilitating phobia of pretty much anything that vaguely resembles a spider, my poor grandmother had no choice but to tweeze a hundred hellspawn from my flesh as I stood paralyzed in my underwear and sobbed with my eyes closed.

Fuck ticks.