Don't let the bed bugs bite

Words absolutely fail to describe the current state of affairs I am in, yet I will try nevertheless.

When I arrived at Belgrade, I was informed by the travel bureau that the hostel I was attempting to check into was closed. I refused to believe this, so I walked ninety city blocks or something looking for the place. It was not to be found. The hostel had moved, so the address that I had was incorrect.

Finally I found the hostel. It is nice and clean. Nothing about it appeared to be sinister. I took a nap, woke up and walked around town a bit, then went back to sleep for the night. I didn't get to do much in the morning/afternoon because it was raining cats and dogs. At this point in time, I looked like I was coming down with an allergic reaction, a bunch of small bumps formed on my arms. I took an advil and an antihistimine, which made me very sleepy, so I went back to bed.

I woke up pretty early the next morning, so I laid in bed and read for thirty minutes before I got up, crushed an icky bug crawling on the wall, showered, and headed out for breakfast. After eating some very delicious Swedish-style pancakes, I headed off to the war museum for a very unnerving experience. The wreckage of a U.S. stealth fighter plane they had shot down in 1999 was proudly displayed along with photos of Serbian citizens killed by NATO's "illegal bombs". (Their use is not sanctioned by the U.N.) Scary.

I stopped by the grocery store for a bit of lunch, where I happened to catch a glimpse of my arms in the mirror. They were covered by lots of angry red welts, and it really freaked me out. Forgetting lunch entirely, I headed to an internet cafe, where I could diagnose myself online.

With some fear and trepidation in my heart, I googled "Bedbugs". A picture of a bug, identical to the one I killed earlier that morning, popped up on the computer screen. My entire body froze into a solid block of ice. I was a victim of a gross, dirty, disgusting, and unspeakably foul disease. I thought I was going to hurl, become hysterical, or start sobbing uncontrollably. Though I nearly did all three, I managed to contain myself, run back to the hostel, explain the situation to the clerk. Ten minutes later I had checked out of that hostel and into a new hostel down the street. I subsequently washed all my clothing and then stayed in bed nearly all day, feeling sorry for myself. (I've never felt so dirty in my life.)

While I was waiting to check out of my hostel, one of the hostel workers sat down next to me. He looked at me for a little bit, sizing me up, before finally saying, "Who cut your hair?" From the tone of his voice, I could tell that the conversation was definitely going in the wrong direction. I told him (somewhat defensively) that I had cut my own. He shook his head. "It is much much too severe. It does not look good." THANK YOU! I really needed you to kick me when I was down. Not only do I appear grotesquely deformed (courtesy of your bedbugs), I have bad hair as well. What a revelation! I find it so enjoyable when strangers choose to dispense unsolicited advice about my personal appearance. Jackass. Did he really expect me to thank him for this nugget of wisdom?

I counted all my bites, marking each with a pen. There are 116 of them. Chickenpox are a joke compared to this thing. I want my mommy.