Thinking About Bees

I have a dream about keeping bees. I'd like to start out with five. A big one, two medium-sized ones, and a small one. That's five. And every day, when I wanted to put honey in my tea, I would take one of the bees from his little beepartment in the Sucrets box I keep them in, and I would sqeeze him into my cup. I don't like a whole lot of honey.

One day, I would open the box and there would be seven bees instead of five. And then I'd have to re-think things.

Bees are very particular about their space. Each bee needs his own little space. Some bees like to put posters of their favorite film stars up in their little beepartments. Some like to put up their sports heroes.

Some paint the insides of their beepartments black and sit inside even on nice spring days and listen to Morrissey. They are the depressed bees who think that nobody understands them. You've seen them. They're huge and fat and buzz around buildings. They're called mason bees, but that's usually only once they've hit middle age and someone's sponsored them into the lodge.

Some bees tell you how beautiful you are and entice you with drink and smooth talk and then don't call and then show up at the same club three months later hanging all over your best friend like stank on a ho. They are the drones and they are usually impotent. They're really not worth getting worked up over.

Some bees are queen bees. They have a lot of babies. Their babies are the princess bees, and their fuzz shows like gold against the rich brown of their sculpted little bodies, just like Princess Stephanie of Monaco.

I like bees.