I got this thing. I got thisβ¦. The older I get, the worse it seems to get. Fuckin wasps. I hate them so very much. When I was a kid I used to look forward to summer and getting out of school.
Nowadays, well, I still like summer but I always look forward to the fall of the year. Something evil that will sting me. So I run. And my behaviour is more than a little reminiscent of a little girl, about four or five years old, running away from something that might actually be harmful.
I am shamed every time I leave my house and meet a wasp. Have you ever lived in shame with yourself? Have you ever lost your shit, entirely, over a fucking bug? Like any other guy. Anyway, a little pain never hurt anyone, right? So why the hell do I lose my shit over a fucking bug? I have a few friends to meet and I have a few in the cooler. And a few rolled.
All is right in the world. I tell myself that everything is going to be fine. I leave the house feeling great. And I notice them everywhere I go. If it flies away, then he must be off to tell his friends. So, you know. Trying to reduce my fear and increase my tolerance. And things were going okay, until my wife ate her lunch outside last summer.
And she brushed nature away and nature retaliated with its poisonous ass. It was swollen for a couple of weeks. Not at all. I love that stuff. Water, heights, flying, all of these are pretty cool to me. Needles don't scare me and the dentist is my friend. I'm not even afraid of commitment. My wife gets sick to her stomach if you talk about eyeballs in detail.
