Tiffany and the Bee

I heard the hum before I saw it. I knew it was nearby, but I couldn’t see it. I swung. I spun around. The hum grew distant. Then before I could react, I saw a black spot in the corner of my eye. I swatted with one hand and snatched off my glasses with the other.

But it was too late. I felt the burn.

It was like the hot pain of cigarette ashes. Or maybe like someone touched a smoldering match to my face. I screamed and doubled over in pain. I dropped my glasses and clutched my forehead in agony. Aaaaah! It got me.

That’s right. A m*****f*****g bee stung me right between the eyes. Now I’m all doped up on Benadryl trying to ward off swelling. I don’t think the stinger was left behind, but I definitely have a sore spot on my forehead — and another one on my arm where Young Beezy’s li’l homie stung me a few minutes before.

Even worse than the pain is the fact that my vision is horrible. When I dropped my glasses, I was essentially Velma-ized. Crawling around on my hands and knees in grass and dirt is not a good look. Thank goodness I remembered that I had an old pair of specs in the house otherwise I might still be crawling around my yard fighting off the rest of the Eastside Bee Mafia.