Dear reader, I am on vacation. I am in the country, being hosted by my sister and brother-in-law, who are actually the best. I’ve been calling this getaway a writing retreat, and I have been trying to work, but who am I kidding: As you read this I am either floating in the pool or napping in a lounge chair by the pool. This experience would be even more ideal if it weren’t for insects. A little while ago a cricket gently landed on my wrist, and I shrieked like someone had come at me with a staple gun. Bugs are really into me. They keep wanting to fly at my face or buzz directly into my ears, the tiny jerks. Something bit me on my shoulder a couple of days ago, and I’m still not over it. It really hurt!

On the plus side, there’s, you know, bucolic splendor. There’s a pool — a pool that’s not filled with strangers. It smells…. fresh? Clean? Not like simmering garbage? Plus there are birds. I haven’t seen any bats yet, but I’m sure they’ll come swooping around soon enough. They eat the mosquitoes, and there’s nothing nice that can be said about mosquitoes, so bats are a-okay. They can’t come in the house, however. They have their place and they better know it!

Pretty as it is, being out in the country is scary as hell. As we all know, country folk are typically afeared of the city and our fast city ways, but me, I’m out here in the woods anticipating a home invasion pretty much every night. The neighbors are simply not close enough to hear our muffled screams. Who will come to our rescue? Deer? They’re notoriously dim-witted. They couldn’t chew through our restraints, nor would they, even if they could figure it out. They’d just wander in, give us Lyme disease, and move on. (I’m assuming the home invaders left the doors open, in this scenario. They were going to murder us, got bored, decided to take our stuff and leave us to the elements. Now we’re yelling at the raccoons, who are sniffing around the doorway, trying to suss out if we’re food. I knew we should have stayed in Brooklyn! Goddammit!)