It was a battle of wits. It had come down to the last mosquito, the very last child of the blood-sucking tribe of monsters that had robbed me of my sleep. It was 10:20 in the afternoon, and I had yet to go to bed. Bed had been a purgatory for me during the painful night; the endless sun forced me to cover my windows and close my door to fresh air, the bugs kept me from casting aside the roasting comforters that plagued me, and the sickly, feverish, light/insect-induced torridity transformed sleep into nothing more than a unachievable dream.

There are times when one doesn't have the strength to be an optimistic dreamer. I had given up at about three, begrudgingly heaved my fatigued self out of bed, and stared at shoes online for hours. I returned back to my stuffy room just to return back to my pathetic keyboard, and chatted with Elisse. I applied my sunless tanning lotion, I drank three cans of iced tea, I watched four episodes of Sex and the City, I went to the bathroom approximately 13 times. I was exhausted. The passing of the tiresome night had changed nothing; my room was still hellish and unpromising. I had no choice, however. I had to get some sleep.

I could do nothing about the stale air. Slumber and harsh sunlight simply cannot exist in the same room when the dreamer in question is one particular as I, so I deconstructed my light brocade and rebuilt it. I stuffed the window with more pillows, more sweaters, re-pinned everything back into broken place. I turned off the overhead light, happy with the results. I turned it back on and returned to my escapade with added determination. I left the room and returned with my only hope: the fly swatter.

The futility of such course of action is unmistakable. I sat there, regardless, robbed of my sleep and all other options, and swatted away. It was a war, and I, in my fatigue, swung through the early morning with the vigor and courage of one who is too tired to not swing. 12 mosquitoes later, I figure I was in good shape. By ripping the comforter out of the Duvet and putting on a thin long-sleeved shirt I made my last preparations, and I was ready for bed.

There is nothing more pleasant than falling to sleep after fitfully fighting for the right to do so. Floating out and over the miserable circumstances was heaven. I mused myself with thoughts of whatever, thoughts so distant I couldn't even remember them when I heard it: that miserable, revolting, nauseating sound of a mosquito, a solitary mosquito buzzing through the night. Nothing, however, is more vile than hearing that buzzing stop, and knowing full well that you're being eaten alive.

I convulsed, shrieking, desperately covering my ears while trying to spasm away from the plague. I fell out of bed.

So here it was: my sleep, feet away, with nothing but a mosquito, the last mosquito, between me and the prize. The situation had been dark and grim, but I had torn down every obstacle that floated in the steaming hell, and dammit, I was going to fall to sleep. And I was not going to be fed on while I slumbered. This miniscule pestilence would be torn down as well, and I would sleep. Fly swatter in hand, I pushed myself against the wall and listened for the wretched sound. 15 minutes passed as I, covered with a sheet and sweating profusely, ransacked the room with my eyes. So clever he thinks he is, thought I, so amazingly witty. What a sick sense of humor. Why would such a stupid thing torment me so? What sick creation finds joy in my insanity?

I'm sure my grandparents heard it. I know my cousins did. The small cry was discernible, but not as loud as the crashing smack of a 5'9'' woman flying into the wall opposite of where she had been sitting. The house shook, the floor bent, and confused Norwegian exclamations sauntered through the air of the warm afternoon. It didn't take long, however, for the clamor to die and for the small but sharp hum of a single mosquito to ring through the room and the depths of my tortured mind.

What stupidity, thought I, as I leaned against the door and cradled my head. What infantility drove me to believing I could purge a bedroom of every single insect that might harass me? I am tired. I do not have the stamina to drive myself to insanity and back in one petulant evening. The only sanctuary in affliction is a mental one, and unless you surrender to the fact that there will always be a mosquito in your bedroom, the sickening whir of those spindly wings upon the air will never forsake your misery.