Life sure is funny sometimes. I try to be, too. But, like life, sometimes the joke just doesn’t turn out the way you thought it would. This is one of those times. Allow me to explain:

 

I had just browsed over some of the latest updates on CH.com and decided to write one. I minimized the browser, hit the start button, and opened a new Office document. I breathed in the sweet smell of the grass around me, and gazed at the scantily clad women still roaming my campus in defiance of the chill. I gathered my thoughts, focusing on the core of my humorous being, distilling my inspiration into a veritable laser beam of funniness which I prepared to unleash upon the digital page of a Word file. I flexed my fingertips and wrung my wrists, stretching and loosening for the typing workout ahead. I cleaned the lenses of my glasses, lest the glare of the sun distract me from my task. And then this big fucking bee came out of nowhere, landed on my right thigh, and stung me right through my cheap canvas khakis.

 

 

Here’s a fun fact: I’ve never been stung by a bee before. Through 25 years of life I have managed to avoid this simple pain. And somehow, being stung by a bee became my one true phobia. I have had an irrational fear of bees for as long as I can remember. I even imagined that I must be allergic to them, rationalizing my terror by calling it a medical necessity. I have been chased across parking lots, fields, campuses and restaurant patios by bees, but I have always escaped their clutches in the past.

 

 

But this bee caught me offguard. I confess, I had left myself vulnerable; I thought it too cold for the six-legged harpies to roam. I was sitting outside a school building, headphones on and looking at the laptop before me. But I was wrong to think myself safe from their torment, for one of those stripey little bastards gave his life to cause me harm, or at least a mild inconvenience. Apparently I’m not allergic to beestings after all. But that’s not really the point. Not even knowing that he died for his trespass makes me any more inclined to forgive it. It was an act of war.

 

 

So forget the comedy – this is a declaration. Bees of the world, your time grows short. Make arrangements, say your goodbyes, make peace with your God, because I am coming for you. I will slay you where you make your homes. I will cut the stems of the flowers you pollinate. I will poison your honey and salt your larvae. I will rip out your stingers and ravish your queens. Death is coming for you, but he will wear my face. Beware.