You know how they always tell you to check your shoes for spiders/scorpions before putting them on? Well, why did no one ever tell me to check my pants?

It was hot in Kennedy Meadows. June 24th, 2017, and the middle of a heat wave. I set up my tent far behind the general store in the best shade I could find, but it was still sweltering. After getting a massive breakfast at Grumpy Bear’s I went back to my tent, stripped off my base layer, and fell into a food coma. I slept for a few hours, but when I heard people milling about I figured it was time to get up and do my laundry. I ignored my discarded woolens and grabbed my shorts that had been left on the floor of my tent the night before. I had no clean underwear so I put them on commando.

I climbed out of my tent. The pain didn’t hit me right away. First I was struck by a wave of nausea, followed by dizziness. Then I felt a burning pain coming from a sacred place.

“AHHHHHH” I ripped my shorts off and danced around outside my tent clawing at my pelvis. When I lifted my hand, I saw that I had indeed murdered the culprit. Somehow a fire ant had made its way into my tent and decided to hole up in the crotch of my shorts. Apparently being squished inside my shorts was not her idea of a good time.

As I was doing my horrified dance, I heard Quoi perk up from a tent a little ways away.

“Are you okay?” She called.

“A fire ant just bit my LABIA!”

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