The bees, man. The freakin’ bees.

Shortly after my previous entry, the weather cleared up as if by magic – due largely, I’m sure, to my proclamation that it was going to rain all day. So, after spending only half the day writing (rather than all day, as per my original rainy day plan), I ventured out into the world to run some errands like a responsible adult.

And a bee stung me.


A few important facts:

1. The last time I got stung by a bee, I was 2 years old, and thus don’t retain much memory of it aside from the fact that walking through a field of flowers barefoot was apparently a bad idea.

2. I did nothing to provoke the bee’s vicious Labor Day assault except dare to walk past it while carrying a bag of frozen blueberries.

3. The day prior to The Stinging (as it shall henceforth be known), I was musing on how rare it is that bees attack humans for no apparent reason whatsoever, and how I thus have no reason to be afraid of them when they happen to fly by.


Yeah. I really should know by now that the universe loves some good old-fashioned ironic foreshadowing.

Regarding the details of the incident:

The bee cleverly centered its attack on my foot, sensing with its keen bee instincts that I was still six blocks from home and would thus be unable to reach safety when my foot was throbbing like, to use the most accurate and technical of medical language, a motherfucker.

Nevertheless, I swatted away my bee assailant and hobbled towards home as quickly as I could, thoughts of potential bee sting allergies and swelling airways dancing cheerily through my head. I decided to swing by the Walgreens pharmacy to ask what they recommended for bee stings (and/or imminent death by airway swelling), but arrived just five minutes after they closed up for the evening, because of course I did.


I had some vague memory of my grandmother putting baking soda on a bee sting once, so I grabbed some from the baking goods aisle and made my limping, swearing-under-my-breath way up to the cash register, where the cashier gave me a bright smile and asked how I was doing.

I was sweaty and in pain, my blueberries were thawing, my airways may or may not have been about to swell shut, and my foot looked like the Eye of Sauron. I replied in the only way I could: “Fine.”

Finally, I was able to take my baking soda and head back to my apartment, where I spent the rest of the evening trying a variety of home remedy treatments and, in an attempt to take my mind off the inevitable death by bee sting allergy that was sure to occur, watching Spongebob episodes on YouTube.


We all cope in our own ways.

I must’ve done something right with my multitude of remedies, in any case, because when I woke up this morning, the swelling and redness had mostly disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a dull pain and continuous, maddening itch.

So, in conclusion:

I curse that bee. I curse his bee mother, his bee father, and his little bee sister who’s still in bee diapers. I curse his bee ancestors and his bee friends and his bee geometry teacher, but most of all, I curse the fact that I left my house at all yesterday. That’s the true moral of the story, I feel.

STAY AT HOME. There are bees out there.


/still delirious from bee venom

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