According to the Internet - and I accept everything the Internet tells me without question, because the Internet brooks no dissent - mankind is facing the nightmarish resurgence of one of our oldest, most ancient foes: the formidable Cimex lectularius.
What is this Cimex lectularius, you ask? An evil Italian robot heck bent on cornering the global spaghetti-sauce market and charging us up the proverbial backside for our precious Ragu? Of course not. A scary-sounding name I made up to sound smart and creative? I wish. Cimex lectularius is actually a tiny, bloodsucking devil known colloquially as the "bedbug" - and Cimex lectularius has returned to mattresses across the land with a vengeance.
Indeed, the bedbug problem has grown so severe that the Environmental Protection Agency (known colloquially as the "FCC") recently held a "bedbug summit," ostensibly to figure out how to eradicate the pests. I think the worst of everyone, so I assume the real goal of this gathering was for Environmental Protection Agency officials to spend a few days at a fancy (meaning bedbug-free) hotel on the taxpayer's dime. But still - that they called their unethical retreat a bedbug summit speaks to the size of humanity's predicament.
Alas, my interest in the bedbug's return to relevance isn't merely clinical. I didn't learn a bunch of fun bedbug facts as part of a school project, and I'm not a hopeless nerd who considers studying insects fun or worthwhile. No, my interest in bedbugs is personal. That's right - bedbugs have taken up residence in the apartment building I call home during the school year (in a bedbug-ridden Midwestern metropolis), and they've developed a taste for my pristine blood.
In fact, my tiny nemeses gorged themselves on my pristine blood for several weeks before I realized I was under attack. How is that possible, you ask? Do I live in such squalor that I fail to notice when a new species of pest has not only taken up residence in my filth-encrusted, pungent abode, but is spending its evenings piercing my skin with its tube-like mouth parts, injecting me with its anesthetic-and-anticoagulant-laced saliva, and drinking my pristine blood by what I'll call the pint, even though I don't know what a pint is? Yes.