Stung

I got stung by a bee for the first time in my life about two weeks ago.

It literally woke me up- I was fast asleep, resisting dreams (nightmares?) about work, when I was jerked awake by a very sharp, very sudden pain on my left hand. (In my hand? On my hand? I need more schooling.)

Drowsily, I thought to myself, 'Maybe I pinched a nerve.' And then I tried to go back to sleep, to no avail. So I woke up, turned on the lights, and inspected my hand. Was that ... a stinger?

I took the stinger out and went about my morning routine. When I walked back into my bedroom after blow-drying my hair, I noticed something on my bed, which I had made after the stinger-removal operation. A little bug. I took a closer look, and sure enough, dead bee.

Stupid bee. Don't they know that they die after stinging someone?? And this bee, he was in my house! I wasn't threatening his flowers or his queen or anything, I was sleeping- why would he sting me?

I felt sorry for the bee, despite the unhappy circumstances to which I had awoken, and so I saved him. He's on a small table in my room, sitting on top of a stack of drawings and sketches. And I took his picture to memorialize him, because I'm morbid that way.

Goodbye, Bee, I hardly knew thee.

(See what working on a Saturday will do to a brain? Addle it, that's what.)