How to get stung by a bee properly
I’m going to start this off with a brief Q&A.
Q: Who here has been stung by a bee?
A. Everyone should raise their hands at this point.
You know why this is? because any asshole can get stung by a bee. It takes a surprisingly little amount of personal agency. You don’t have to do anything to get stung by a bee. The scenario becomes more likely if you piss the bee off first, but as the passive recipient of a bee sting, and considering the truculent and inquisitive nature of the bee alongside the (high) odds of any bee having a standard case of suicidal depressive, it is highly likely that in the course of a human’s life that human will get stung by a bee, regardless of any fault of his own. It’s going to happen. Death, taxes, bee stings. Those things happen.
Why am I talking about bee stings? Because the nature of my experiences with bees highlights the fact that i have been singled out by some higher power as the target of its avenging angels. Imagine me a false Christ-figure, who instead of dying for your sins has been sent to Earth to serve as the victim of an unceasing string of mild violence from all quarters. This is not to say that I have been stung more often than your average human: I’ve been stung twice, bee stings have been just one form of those angels’ chosen torments. However it is not the volume of stings, but rather the placement and manner of them that makes this noteworthy.
My first bee sting was at the tender age of 17. I was old enough to know that there was a solid likelihood that my life wasn’t going to be smooth, but the pervasive cynicism and sad strain of apathy that would define my current self had yet to rear their ugly heads. I was actually, genuinely happy. All I did was read books, eat food, and play soccer. Think of me as a young Oedipus. Something dark is definitely on the horizon, but the idea that I would one day blind myself after metaphorically killing my father and fucking my mother was so out there I couldn’t have conceived of it.
I was frolicking around barefoot in my friends back yard, playing our brand of 1v1 home-run derby. After having (classically) struck the fuck out on a terrible pitch, I began walking towards John, holding out the bat for him to take it, when I stepped on fire. I ripped my left foot up while hopping around on my right, shouting obscenities, when I saw a little fuzzy yellow and black object nestled right into the area behind the knuckle of my big toe. That’s right. The most obscure but least fucking armored part of my body apart from my testicles had just somehow been penetrated by this creature. I had had to step on EXACTLY the correct piece of earth to do this, either making myself somehow subconsciously complicit in my own misery, or the beneficiary of punishment from some unknown deity who exacts his judgment in highly precise, unorthodox fashion.
The second time I was stung by a bee was actually several weeks after that. Which is strange, because as someone who had most recently had his eyes opened to a new form of pain, I had been going out of my way to consciously avoid situations where I might run into bees. I avoided bees in the same way a man who accidentally cuts himself spends the next couple months paying exceedingly close attention when cutting things so as to not fuck up again and slice himself open. Yet I think after learning of the circumstances surrounding this second affair, it can be agreed I did everything in my power to avoid bees short of staying inside surrounded by bottles of bee killer.
I was being driven home from school on a fine sunny day and was listening to music with the windows down. I had my right hand out the passengers window, fingers tapping the window frame in time with the beat, when my hand suddenly burst into flame. I immediately thrust my hand back inside, where I saw, once again, a fuzzy black and yellow object nestled in the little web between my middle and ring finger. How the fuck did that happen? How many things had to go wrong, what ludicrous convergence of disparate physics equations occurred for that to happen? It would be far more impressive if it wasn’t so painful and perhaps unwarranted. Unless, granted, I was being punished pre-emptively for future transgressions.
Is there a point? I’m not sure. At this point in my life a a lot of weird things are happening, but to be fair, I do a proportionately similar number of unconventional things too make it understandable. However, I’ve never heard of anyone getting stung in that kind of fashion, and I refuse to think that lightning is striking place. That being said, everyone likes to think they’re a little different. I guess I just do too, even if the differences I claim for my own suck.