If Mosquitoes were kinder, they would feast on the blood of the recently deceased.

Of course, Mosquitos are not kind and they do not follow the black humming hearse in a massive hoard, zipping their way through the cemetery, 

and zagging their way through the gravestones. 

This is a very sad fact indeed, because it means that the living must suffer all the itchings, and scratchings, and bruisings, of their bite. 

For the dead feel no such things, they are paralyzed and nothing really at all. 

But the bulging, pumping, purple veins of a person being alive, are too much of a treat for the inconsiderate creatures. So they bite and they 

drink and drink and drink and drink, 

until they question the idea of taking anymore.
Mosquitos, as you will remember are not kind, but they are not idiots, and they can not drain a person fully without exploding themselves,

 so they zoom off, but the hell they raised stays there on your arm, small and red and inconvenient. That’s when the scratching starts, then 

stops, and starts, and stops and starts and stops and starts

 and it consumes you. 

This annoyance is very unfairly placed upon you, a member of The Living. 

You must live a life full of important things like 

climbing mountains and meeting people through screens, and washing your car. 

The dead are what they are but they are not what you are and that is alive 

so if the mosquitoes won’t leave you alone, 

get out the damn bug spray.