I’m lying in bed with my laptop on my stomach. Ten minutes ago I was dreaming that I was having a vasectomy. Strike that image from your mind immediately. It’s too distressing and has no relevance.
I was stirred from my dream 9 minutes and 30 seconds ago by the sound of a bee in the bathroom. I know it’s a bee. They have a distinct timbre to their buzz that wasps and flies don’t have. It’s more of a deep hum, reassuring, warm, comforting. I’d like to think it’s caused by the bee’s close working relationship with honey.
My immediate waking is probably a primal response to danger that, were I waking up with a tiger on my bed, I’d be grateful for. I’ve slept through thunder, vacuum cleaners and a crap 0.000001 on the Richter scale earthquake. As it’s just a bee in another room, I’m upset at being woken up early.
I know I’ll have to deal with the bee soon. I smell and my skin has dried up. I need to remove the smell. Someone may walk into my office (read: front room) and smell my unwashed – but intact – balls. They may even notice my peeling skin. Something must be done. Maybe I’ll let him out and he’ll tell his bee brethren about that dude in the green shirt that allowed him to escape certain death. Maybe the queen will find out and order the hive to gift me a year’s supply of free honey. Perhaps the bee children for generations to come will be told the story of the mighty green warrior that rescued the drone from certain death. As each generation passes the story will be exaggerated more and more until the single drone become a hundred and my bathroom becomes a an eighteen-legged, two-headed cat that breathes fire and shits sadness.
I know the bee is unlikely to sting me but I still have a vision of opening the door and getting an immediate, full force bee attack. BANG BANG BANG – straight to the chest like Bruce Lee one-inch punches. “Don’t be a fucking mong” I tell myself before tentatively sliding open the door.
The bee is gone. He must have found his way out the window.
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