This is why bees are murdering crack dealers. At least, I assume they are. It's inferred.

I have these ridiculous fears, sometimes fears that go all the way back to childhood.  Some of them developed completely randomly, like I wake up one morning and say to myself "today, I am afraid of (insert irrational object/place) for the rest of my life starting now and forever and ever shall I fear this thing forever.  Amen."  I'm always told to conquer my fears.  Yeah.  You wanna know who tried to conquer fear?  Abraham Lincoln.  And he's dead.  (At least I think it was fear he was conquering.  Or maybe the Confederacy....no.  Pretty sure it was fear.)

Traumatizing thing that scares me: Bees.

Bees are the Universe's way of telling me it wants me to die a slow, painful death.  I'm not allergic, so actually I probably wouldn't die if I ever were confronted by bees, but it's the principle of the thing.  I would feel like dying.  I shriek and cry every time I see one.  I hate all bees, including hornets and yellow jackets.  I know they aren't real bees, per se, but they're just as freaking terrifying, so I don't really know why there's a distinction.

And why are they called "bumblebees"?  That sounds adorable.  When I hear the word bumblebee, this is what I picture:

I am adorable because I am a bumblebee.

This is an actual photograph of a real, live bee:

I am a real bee.  I shoot lasers out of my antennae.  I will maul your family with my ability to kill you.

It's dangerous, calling this kind of monstrosity a bumblebee.  It's misleading and will probably cause death.  It's like if I called a grizzly bear a wugglesbear.  It's like saying boogleygator.  Or a great white I just want to love you shark.

When I was a kid, my family went to a park as a fun outing.  I don't remember the details of the day, except for sheer terror.  My brother and I took turns rolling down a hill.  It was very exciting.

Immediately traumatized.  Especially vivid in my memory is the image of several bees implanted in the skin of my waist.  They were out for blood, venom sacs pulsating rhythmically, each pump saying "Hello, I am currently poisoning you, please die now."  I screamed and I cried and I will never recover from the terror of that day.  B-day.  But...not like "Birthday."  I was making a clever reference to D-day.  But with bees.  Except...just the letter...  I swear I'm funny sometimes.

And you know what else?  Besides being absolutely horrifying, bees are liars.  They break their own rules.  I was older when I discovered this.  Now, when I was a kid of about ten, I thought I was so cool that ice was produced in my brain.  Except cooler than that.  Like, if my brain made ice, and the ice was magic and granted you three wishes, and one of those wishes was always one million dollars plus a pet velociraptor all in one wish and you still had two more wishes.  That's how cool I thought I was.

So one day I was entertaining a group of six year old children, telling them how brave and fearless I was.  My mother had tried to calm my fear of bees by telling me that if I didn't move, they wouldn't sting me.  I took that to heart.  I worshiped that rule.  I was safe from the tyranny of bees forever.  No bee could harm me!  This I explained to the wide-eyed children. 

Me: If you just don't move, the bees won't hurt you because they'll think you're a tree or something.  I don't know.  But they won't hurt you.
Kid: Really?  You aren't even scared?
Me: Nope!  I'm very courageous because bees will never get me.
Kid: Whoaaa, tell us all about how awesome you are!
Me: Well, I am so---

At this point, a bee landed directly on my finger.  I had been motioning grandly with my arms in order to emphasize how unbelievably awesome I was.  As the bee descended upon my innocent appendage, I shuddered to a stop.  Even my expression froze in place.  I was a statue, a heroic statue gazing upon the enemy.  I was confident.  I was going to win.  I was about to demonstrate my power. 

I stared at the bee.  It stared at me.  It had tiny little fangs and I'm pretty sure it whispered "I hate you and all that you stand for."  And then it stung me.  Twice.

I screamed and screamed and screamed and cried and cried and cried and had to be physically lifted off the playground, surrounded by a group of traumatized six year olds.

"WHYYYY!!??  WHY DID IT STING ME?!  WHY, I HELD STILL AND I DIDN'T MOVE *GURGLE GASP SOB* AND YOU SAID IF I DIDN'T MOVE IT WOULDN'T GET ME!!"

Bees aren't supposed to sting you if you hold still.  It's part of the bee code.  Everyone knows that "if you leave it alone, it will leave you alone" because "it's more afraid of you than you are of it." 

I just don't know what to believe anymore.

I haven't been stung by a bee since that incident, but I'm pretty sure my mind has dramatized the memory of pain to the point that if I ever were to get stung, I would go into shock and die, because that's exactly the kind of thing I associate with bees.  Shock and DEATH.