Sarah
(Jazzy music intro)
When I was 4, a bee flew up my dress and stung my back a few times. My mom, being the caring new mother, she was, rushed her crying daughter to the closest ER (insert ambulance sounds) because this was my first bee sting, and she was worried that I could have possibly been allergic.
Well I wasn’t.
Apparently by the time she arrived I was fine, just a few welts on my back and a tear stained face asking for stickers because I knew doctors always had stickers for kids. I don’t remember any of this, not a single moment, but as far as I can tell, the moral of the story is, I love stickers, and hate bees.
(Jazz music transition)
When I was 9, I went to a waterpark (water splashing sounds should be here) with my mom and cousins. We were climbing the stairs to one of the larger waterslides, innertubes in hand, dripping with water and excitement. A bee made its way over to 9-year-old me and I freaked out, stuck in between wet people, cold innertubes, and hot cement. My mom insisted that I stood still and let the bee do its thing.
Well I couldn’t.
Crying, I flung my innertube down the steps in hope of distracting the yellow demon and clung to my mother. Moral of this story is bees are still horrible and waterslides are okay I guess.
(Jazz music transition)
When I was 15, I sat in my mom’s Toyota, eating a slice of pizza and listening to her talk about work. When I spotted a bee, I instinctively commanded my mother to roll up the windows, because I was not trying to deal with this monstrosity of a creature in an enclosed car while I was strapped into my seat and had a giant pizza box in my lap.
Well she didn’t.
The bee flew into the car and I screamed, frantically trying to unbuckle my seatbelt, get the pizza box off of my lap, and open the door, all at the same time while keeping my eye on this yellow hell bug. Unsuccessful, I ended up with a pizza box on the back seat of my mom’s car, a shoe left on the floor of the passenger side, and me, crying in the double-parked (Insert sounds of car to fade in and out) car lane on the side of the street with people staring at me. Moral of this story, pizza is great, and bees are my archenemy.
(Rock guitar transition)
When I was 17, my mom and I were driving home from a movie late at night. It was dark, the radio was on, and the streetlamps where flickering. That’s when I felt something thump against my leg. Immediately, I flung my hand on to turn the little light in the front of the car on, which I was always told was not allowed for some reason. The light attracted whatever hit my leg, and from the place my legs where resting, a bee flew up, nearing the light. I panicked, begging my mom to pull over on the one-way street.
Well she wouldn’t.
I hoisted my body up arching my back, so I was no longer touching the passenger seat, which was consequently the wrong decision, because I had a dress on. And there was no place for the bee to go. Asides from up my dress. Which was exactly what it did. And well that didn’t go over well with me. So naturally, I did what I had to do, which was fling the car door open, unbuckle my seatbelt, and jump out of my mom’s moving car. (Insert cars honking and driving to fade out at end of segment) Luckily, she was making a turn and wasn’t going too fast, so I didn’t die, which I guess is cool.
Moral of this story, I guess I can cross “jump out of a moving car” off my bucket list, and bees are literally out to kill me.
(Rock guitar transition)
When I was 19, or this year, I would do homework with my roommate outside on Deg Patio. We would sit out there on warmer days, so the sun could bake our skin and talk about life issues instead of actually doing homework. That was the first mistake. For someone who hates all things that are bugs, I sure do put myself into positions that give bees leverage over me. When a bee landed on my notebook, I was already on my feet backing into the brick wall and telling those bees to back off. I told them to leave me alone.
Well they didn’t.
So once again, I did what I deemed necessary. I screamed, I panicked, I ran circles around my table, dodging the bee like I dodge my responsibilities, and drawing some much unwanted attention from students who probably thought I was crazy, or on drugs. And at this point I’m not really sure which was worse.
The moral of all these stories is, my name is Sarah, and bees are assholes.