Anyone who’s ever had a tick crawl across their skin knows the state of paranoia it induces. From that point forward, when the wind tickles your face with your hair right away your mind thinks you’ve got a tick on you.  The sun casts a leaf shadow on your arm and you see it out of the corner of your eye. It’s gotta be a tick. The collar of your shirt rubs your neck. Tick. All it takes is one tick sighting to turn you into a nervous, squirming, hyper-vigilant crack addict covered in imaginary bugs.

Ticks are awful creatures. They rob you of your sense of compassion. Sure I burned a couple ant hills with a magnifying glass like every kid. But I’m no bug sadist. I know bugs have a purpose in the earth. But not ticks. If I find one I instantly take it outside and burn it with a lighter. They’ll pop like popcorn if you hit them just right.  I hate ticks.

Ticks are ugly.  It’s hard to see any redeeming trait about them.  They look like a tiny little crab with pincers just looking for blood.  Your blood.  If you dislike mosquitoes, ticks have to be their hillbilly, cross-eyed cousin from Pennsyl-Tucky.

I once pulled an engorged tick off of my dog’s ear.  It must have been on there a week.  Ticks apparently are the equivalent of a frat guy with access to an unlimited supply of beer once they attach to a host.  They won’t stop drinking until they burst.  And if you catch them at just the right stage of maturity, be prepared to be thoroughly disgusted.  Imagine a grape with legs and you’ll have a pretty good idea.