I hate bees. Really I do.
Now don’t give me any attitude, I have a good reason; I am extremely allergic to bee-stings. I have been my whole life, since I was stung at about age 2 and my parents made the discovery. I was stung a few times as a child, and the last time was at about 11 years old. The swelling took three days to stop spreading, let alone go down.
That means I have spent more than a quarter of a century trying to avoid the little buggers; since I was old enough to understand the need.
But will they return the favour? Oh, no! They follow me. All over. There’s nothing scarier for me than the sound of a bee buzzing when I can’t see it. The knowledge that the comparatively harmless little insect could decide to chase me, and then I will be in trouble. Some of the scariest times in my life were when I was caught in a migrating swarm, and the time I nearly swallowed a bee.
People used to tell me I was paranoid, but last year a bee chased me around a fruit orchard for nearly a minute before stinging me for no reason. Despite the fact that there were three other guys standing perfectly still, the bee chooses to chase me.
I hate bees. How can something so small be so nasty?
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