Matt says I shouldn’t write about this because it will forever classify me as a dirty girl, but I don’t really have a classy reputation to lose, so I shall tell you.

WE HAVE FLEAS!

(You’re judging me, aren’t you?)

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t believe Matt is here at my house, sitting on my bed, because all we’ve done all evening is peer over our homemade trap and periodically slap each other, saying afterward, “Oh, sorry. Just a beauty mark.” I am bitten everywhere — on my ankles (oh, my ankles!), my knees, my hip, my forehead and even my knuckles. I’m an itchy, disastrous mess and I swear, if I see one more bite, I might just saran wrap my body or curl up in the freezer. Or do something drastic.

Not putting blame on anyone, but we believe my mom brought these suckers home from Miami last week. Since we discovered them, we’ve tried every method of combat out there: carpet powder, flea bombs, light traps, endless loads of laundry, vacuuming like maniacs, and eating lots and lots of garlic. (Gosh, I’m totally racking up popularity points now, eh?) I think I’m at my breaking point. While standing in the hallway, I noticed two fleas on my sock and got so frustrated that I couldn’t help but scream “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” so loudly that the dogs across the street could hear me. Dramatic? I don’t care! I don’t deserve the life of a dirty girl! Help!