Drake The Enemy
It's that time of year again. Drake is snuggled in the corner completely content, well fed, and wearing a gigantic grin across his smug face. He, that I've noticed, hasn't scratched himself all year. Bastard.
I don't know what kind of bugs he brings in here, but they seem to like him and hate me. I suspect he tastes like broccoli, and I taste like root beer. Well, probably not, but maybe something like that. My left hand has about twelve something or another bites on it, and they itch so much that I'm starting to think that sticking it in the fan will feel better.
I think I'll trick him with promises of car rides with the window down and walks in the park only to take him to the nearest Korean restaurant.
I don't know what kind of bugs he brings in here, but they seem to like him and hate me. I suspect he tastes like broccoli, and I taste like root beer. Well, probably not, but maybe something like that. My left hand has about twelve something or another bites on it, and they itch so much that I'm starting to think that sticking it in the fan will feel better.
I think I'll trick him with promises of car rides with the window down and walks in the park only to take him to the nearest Korean restaurant.