You know what sucks about living alone (in effect) in the country in the spring? When you discover a tick in the middle of your back in the middle of the night. That spot that you cannot reach by yourself, no matter how you contort your body. The tweezer doesn't reach either. You get out the rubbing alcohol, hoping the burn will make the tick back out. Nope, but your back is nicely sanitized! You try going back to bed, thinking you'll call your friend (and neighbor) in the morning. Except you can't get back to sleep knowing there is a tick in the middle of your back. The slightest touch of fabric to your skin makes you think there are ticks crawling on you. You get back out of bed, grab a butter knife from the kitchen drawer, and finally, scrape that sucker off, along with several epidural layers. You figure the new rug burn in the middle of your back won't get infected because your back had been doused in rubbing alcohol. You head back to bed, the Brad Paisley song running through your head.