Here I was thinkin I’m gonna have a relaxng, mellow month, but turns out, Connecticut is like the best place to contract Lyme disease. Like if you want it, just come here. I’ve been warned I need to be constantly scouring myself for ticks and target-like rashes, which I’ve translated into obsessing over bug bites and calling them Lyme.  But I guess what is life without a least a little bit of exaggerated paranoia grounded in an actual threat?  But seriously, ticks: No. Just, don’t. You took my best friend in kindergarden, and you shan’t have me, or at least not alive.

But hopefully not dead, either.

Pants for days,

Camper #73