Bees?
There were two bees in my apartment today. TWO. BEES. Now, out in the wild, bees are lovely. I’m sure by now you’ve gathered that I feel bees and I have a lot in common, especially when we get drunk. But all up in my apartment, bouncing off windows, buzzing with anger and imminent stinging fury? Sorry, bees, it was your lives or mine. So I smushed them to death with a pink flowery Kleenex box. I like to think that the last thing they saw was a giant flower, and so their final moments were happy ones.
After this traumatic experience, I called my dad at work to freak out about it, like any 23 year old grown up person would do. I guess he was busy with something at the time, or my horrified “omgtherewastwobeesdadomg” was a little too high pitched for him to understand, because the conversation went something like this…
Me: Dad! There were bees in my apartment!
Him: Beads?
Me: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES, DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! Two bees!
Him: Two beets?!
Me: BEES!
So, I almost lived out a great Arrested Development moment, and killed bugs all by myself. What a good day.
R.I.P. bees.










