Killa Bees On Attack

Stop me if you've heard this one before. I was attacked by bees at age 8.

Note: I apologize if this post isn't the most riveting one ever, although getting attacked by bees is pretty serious stuff. You see, all the stuff I'd LIKE to write about, I can't. Well, I could but I am 99.8% sure it would come back to bite me in the ass. My new friend (yes, I am 8), blogs anonymously and I had a conversation with her not too long ago about how I sometimes wish I was writing with no by-line. The freedom to be able to express daily frustrations or just plain talk shit with no repercussions seems so LIBERATING. But instead, you all know who I am, what I look like and that I don't like hamburgers.

But enough of that. On to the ATTACK.

So my family owns a piece of land called The Rambo. The Rambo Run stretches for three miles with a fishing stream. My Grandpa and a few of his buddies way back in the day, bought this piece of land so they could have their own place to fish and shoot the shit. Or be men. Whichever you prefer. It has since been passed on and has a few hundred members. I think you have to be invited to join this club, so don't hold your breath. Even my invite hasn't shown up yet and my dad is the secretary. But I digress, since my dad loves trout fishing more even more than he loves Elton John, a TON of my childhood memories took place at The Rambo. And it is beautiful. See?

And yes, that first photo is of me fly fishing. Well, trying to at least. Again, the digression.

So I had this boyfriend when I was 8, Chris Kourner. I have no idea if I spelt his name correct but hopefully, Chris, if you're reading this, don't hold it against me. It's been a long time since I've scribbled your last name combined with my first. Chris and I were walking through the Rambo woods which consists of a VERY narrow path, one in front of the other sort of walking style. Chris, being the gentleman that he was (or so I thought), was walking ahead of me. We're almost to The Falls (pictured above) when Chris suddenly turns around, pushes me out of the way (there goes the gentleman title) and starts running like a bat out of hell. By the time that I can figure out what is going on, there is a giant swarm of bees heading towards me. I started screaming like the 8-year-old girl that I was and took off running with my arms flailing above me trying to fight off the bees. Now, keep in mind, this is like 1991, the same year that 'My Girl' hit the big screen. Yeah, you know the one where the kid DIES from a bee sting. Awesome. Luckily, I am not allergic and am here to tell you this story today. I escaped with a mere 30 or so stings covering mostly my hands, arms and cheeks. Not butt cheeks. Face cheeks.

I broke up with Chris that day.