I’ve been stung by three bees this week. Well, bees, y’know, wasps, hornets—who can tell at a distance? But they’re black and they’re yellow and they pinch like a bitch, and why are there so many bees?

It’s this chair, man. This chair’s a bee magnet. Can you return stuff for, like, insects?

The first one stung my face, by the brim of my hat.

The second one went for my toe.

I had two bee-free days, and I thought they’d moved on, but today I got stung on my hand.

The first bee, I was dozing. I woke to a buzz and a hot-needle pain. The second one, I watched it land on me. I sat and I waited, and it stung between my toes. Today, I was dead tired, and I didn’t wake up, but now there’s a sting on my hand. Can I just say “fuck bees?” I love honey, and all, and a world filled with flowers, but I’ve had it with these motherfucking bees on this motherfucking balcony.

Someone must have a bee box, one of those…one of those…oh, you buy it on Amazon, and you put it out, and bees come. Free honey, sort of thing. Free honey and stings for your neighbours.

One more thing. This is a list of foods I’m craving, so I’ll remember to eat them when I get my appetite back:

  • Peppered mackerel;
  • Artichoke hearts;
  • Anything with celery salt on it;
  • Salt pork;
  • Stuffed mushrooms;
  • Some sort of frozen dessert.

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