I am, without a doubt, a walking buffet for bugs. Mosquitoes see me and roll out the red carpet. I don’t know what it is—my blood type, my Bronx-born bravado, or just the sheer deliciousness of my aura—but to bugs, I’m five-star dining. Meanwhile, my travel companions are chilling without a welt in sight while I’m over here looking like I lost a cage match with a hive of angry, invisible insects.

So you’d think bug spray would be my salvation, right? My loyal travel sidekick. My anti-itch armor. Ha. You sweet, naïve soul.

Let me tell you about the time I was traveling and found myself cornered, itchy, and desperate—only to discover that the hotel’s lone, dusty bottle of OFF! was $45. Yes. Forty-five. American. Dollars. I laughed. I mean, truly laughed. Like the way one does when they’ve reached peak ridiculousness and spiritual surrender. I put it right back on the shelf, told the bugs, “Bon appétit,” and walked out, swearing softly under my breath.

Then there was that other time in a different country. Sunday rolled around. Mosquitoes were having a block party on my ankles, and I went on a noble mission to find bug spray. But the cashier stopped me and said, “Sorry, no alcohol sales on Sunday.” I blinked. “Ma’am,” I whispered. “It’s bug spray. Not tequila.” But nope. The bug spray had alcohol in it and was, therefore, banned for the day. I almost staged a one-woman protest right there in aisle three.

And don’t get me started on the time the spray exploded near my contact lens case. That’s right—my eyes swelled up like I’d lost a round in a prize fight. My vision was blurry, my dignity gone, and I had to explain to people why I looked like a swollen cartoon character on vacation.

Bug spray, my supposed savior, has turned on me more times than I can count. And yet, I keep crawling back. Because what choice do I have? My blood is apparently a national delicacy on every continent. My skin swells like balloon animals at a birthday party. And the bugs? Oh, they never take a day off.

Maybe one day I’ll find that perfect formula—strong enough to fend off the insect armies, gentle enough not to blind me or bankrupt me. Until then, I’ll be the person in the group slapping at invisible attackers, muttering about DEET and making peace with my fate as a human citronella candle.