thepixelproject

Well, there's someone I know who claims to be in a bit of a funk today. And, as most things do, this got me to thinking, reflecting... mainly I thought about being in a funk myself, and what I do to get out of it, et-cetera.

Then I thought about tree-houses for a moment: soon I was reminiscing on old tree-forts I had when I was younger - weren't those the best? - before I finally stumbled across the current topic:



Bees.

More specifically one incident I had with bees - a rather harrowing one I might add, so please, no children - but it seems like a funny image now that I think about it. Anyway. Here's my story. Hopefully it will cheer her up, since I bet things aren't as bad for her now as they were for me here.

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We had this fort in my backyard - I say we, as in my younger brother and I, and my, as in my mom and step-dad's - and it was awesome. Way up the tree, it had a secret entrance, real working glass house windows, a roof - everything, right? It was a good place to hang out. The tree it was built on straddled a fence that divided our property with a sort of empty lot - I can't remember who owned it, but it was fenced off anyway, and separate from our neighbor's. Er, like this:



Anyway, one day I day I was leaving the fort, all alone. I was using the back exit, the one that put you down onto the unknown property (which, by the way, was nothing but overgrown weeds and blackberry bushes).

(Okay, this is where the bees come in.)

So I climbed down the back entrance, hanging on to the edge of the fort and swinging down to the ground with a thud.

Only it wasn't a thud. I think it was more of an oof, but whatever the sound it was certainly masked by the sound of the bees. Apparently I had not-so-gracefully come across a new nest (I remember thinking later, "That must be why there's more bees around lately", deftly closing the case on that mystery). In fact, it was quite clear that I had gone through the bloody thing with my gangly feet - nice one, Tarzan.

And speaking of gangly, maybe we ought to describe our hero for a second.

I was tall. I don't remember exactly how old I would of been then, but I clearly remember being tall. And skinny. That's how it always was. But more than that, more than I was physically out of proportion growing up, I was a clumsy, clumsy kid. Big feet. Tall. Skinny. Not really athletic. Happy-go-lucky, nerdy kid. All my friends were kind of the same as me, and we never really had enemies: we were just goofy kids. This incident was not an exception to this rule. I was a goofy kid who, quite goofingly, stomped through a bees nest.

Anyway, I fucking ran. Yes, even though I was young I clearly remember fucking running, so please pardon the vulgarity, it's imperative to my story. In all honesty, I think I was doing all right, with the running, that is. A couple of the homeless bees got up my shirt and we biting the heck out of me, but I was doing all right, considering the terrain and all.

Then I remembered the fence. You see, I had jumped out the back of the fort onto the nest, ran forwards, then had to make wide u-turn to get back to my place. At this point I was nearing the fence. Quickly.

So I had to jump it. It wasn't a high fence: it was one of the ones with posts that look like firewood, loosely strung together with thick wire... (don't get ahead of me now).

I'm not sure why I thought I'd make it - here I am covered in bee stings, running, asthma kicking in, thinking I can jump this bloody wire fence even though I always tried to get out of gym class. I can just picture it now in slow-motion: me, arms flailing, eyes half-shut, making this Olympian jump over this huge fence, explosions rocking the earth around me, chased by huge killer-bee/piranha things...

Obviously I didn't make the jump. Big clumsy foot got caught in the top wire (at least it was the top one), and I came down like a half-empty sack of potatoes. My lace had got caught for a second, so I landed with one leg still in the air, much as I imagine John Cleese might... To this day I have no idea how I managed to not break my nose there. I tugged by shoe loose, swatting at the bees the whole time and ran towards the house. Towards my mother, who was just inside the sliding-glass door. Who is very allergic to bees (my mom, not the door). And she closed the door on me.

I can't really remember what happened after that. I remember my step-dad coming out, but I can't remember if the bees left because they all died from stinging me, or if we fought them or what. I was totally covered in bee bites and stings, though I wasn't allergic or anything, so I was okay. My neighbor (we lived in a duplex) came over with some sort of crazy homemade salve and pasted it all over me. So here I was again, big silly goofy kid, all mad, covered in bee attacks, and now I have to play hockey with all the other kids covered in huuuuuuuuuuge white dots all over my body. I will not relate any of my new nicknames here or anywhere.

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So smile, eh? Life is silly.