Small talk

First matter of business, I am a poor mosquito bitten soul. To give you some idea of the torture inflicted by their flesh and soul sucking facial nozzles on my poor poor body, I have ten on my face alone. Two on my neck, four on my back, and mountain ranges of bites covering my arms and legs. I haven't counted out of sheer terror, and no, I haven't gotten around to naming the mountain ranges either. Oh, girl's camp.
Day 3 of camp log:
The mosquitos' very presence for three days has driven me and my fellow camp mates into a raging delirium, the news that we will be leaving early seems to ease our disquieted spirits somewhat. Intensive storms have flooded many tents, and most girls here are wet and disheveled, clinging to whatever dry possessions lasted the storms. Thanks to the fine handiwork of my tent maker, ye olde Coleman, my possessions remained dry, as well as the 9 girls who took shelter within. Now that we are in a dry place, the decision is made. We cannot remain any longer. As we pack up, the mosquitoes begin swarming in ominous black clouds. I look down to see at least five sucking my soul out through my legs. I quickly dispatched their souls to the Netherlands with a quick killing curse, a.k.a. Squishing. Girls began to run mad, screaming, shaking their fists at the sky and tearing at their hair. There is much gnashing of teeth and murmuring. Finally, the coaches arrive. We are saved!
End journal entry.

After loading ourselves into trucks and cars, we began the hour long journey home. The mosquito poison was still in our systems, and I'm convinced they genetically engineered those things to download cocaine in our systems so the lab men could see how long we lasted. I might hazard a guess of we failed. So some of my gal pAls and I are squished in the back of a truck, while I'm singing out a warbly "secret tunnel!!!" and yelling other random phrases while the three others in the back with me laugh hysterically. One painted a finely worded picture of me in a float hippie dress with flowers woven in my hair, driving my with my toes with my guitar on my lap, stuck in traffic singing out the window "secret tunnel!!! Secret tunnel!!!" while others stare at me fearfully. It was all hilarious. The poor woman driving us home was terrified.
Now, after three hair shampoos, a ton of soap, some lotion and some clean clothes,along with a shave of the forest covering the in-named mountain ranges on my legs, I am back to looking, acting, and smelling like a regular human being. My writing, however, is still only partially humane.