When mosquitoes don't bite...

For the record, i've got six tattoos (seven, depending on how you look at it) under my skin. They don't make me a better person or a member of  a gang. [Related: I won't mind being a member of a Russian-mafiosi-with-a-desi-touch group where everybody else fears me and my tattoos.] Coming back to reality, none of my artwork seems to have impressed my parents so far—not even the one that has both their names mentioned in it. Regardless, i somehow feel vindicated by my choice to go under the needle. Besides, what more can a son do to express his love to those who are convinced that he's a perennial underachiever? Anyway, i digress. Everyday we discover something new. Not in the way fire or faith was found but somewhat close. Like the other night, i woke up to an itchy acidic experience only to confront my worst nocturnal problem after sleeplessness: mosquito bites. These wannabe-lesions appear somewhere stuck in between love bites and hate bites. Anyway, i digress again. That night, i observed a distinct pattern. Mosquitoes are afraid of my tattoos. No, seriously. They don't dare poke their hideous proboscis into the area that's inked. In fact, they go for the tiny space that lies in between the black design. Isn't that astounding? Of course. Do you know how it feels to have an entire community fear you? Hitleresque, yeah. Milosevican too. Thanks to this rather intriguing behavior amongst Sanpada mosquitoes, i've grown more confident of my pursuit to get a lot more tattoos than i initially intended to. I just hope this ain't Mother Nature's conspiracy to make my face end up like Mike Tyson's or those Maoris who intimidate you with their Haka moves.