The Bee And Me

Getting old sucks in many ways. I am most commonly reminded of this when I venture out to kick the ball around with the boy. When he was a wee tad I was the one who taught him how to play. Now he's totally schooling me when I'm not occupied being spastic all on my own. So last night, at the end of a session that saw me put every penalty I was shooting at the inside of the post directly into his hands in the center of the line instead (goddammit, godDAMMIT!!!), a bee flew up my boxers and stung me on the ass.

More specifically, it stung me within the perimeter of where the bikini line would have been, had I been wearing bikini underwear. Another inch inboard and there would have been a major problem. It's a very difficult spot to grab in public while hopping up and down, trying to dig the bee out, while saying aaaaauuuuuuggggghhhhh fuck fuckfuckFUCK very loudly. The boy was no help whatsoever.

Then I got to walk home from the park with a burning sensation shooting down my leg and laterally into other areas. No chance of digging the stinger out, as I needed both a mirror and unfamiliar contortions to even see the friggin' welt. Which was huge. The burning was eventually replaced with numbing that was troubling but, fortunately, transient. Everything seems to be in working order, with only a residual sensation of a small nail having been driven into the left side of my, uh, area.

Sitting down is interesting today!