Openly acknowledging one’s foibles can be somewhat liberating. So, through this uncharacteristic dalliance with candor, I’ll admit it; mosquitoes, upon capture, dead or alive, are unmercifully dismembered. There, I said it. Pluck, pluck, pluckity-pluck. Wings, legs, proboscides, and heads methodically detached from bodies. Neither proud nor ashamed, it’s just something I do, unselfishly, for the greater good. You're welcome.
Writing, on the other hand, is a purely selfish endeavor. A self-gratifying indulgence that does not require a tissue.
- a dark place where one goes to insert suppositions and other soft bits.