I’m slap-bang in the middle of my exam week (and the sound that my anxiety makes is “AAAAAARRGH”) so instead of a proper post, this entry is brought to you by a combination of my addiction to twitter, revision psychosis, and paralyzing fear of a particular kind of malicious winged insect.
I do not like wasps. I don’t think anyone likes wasps. I will give you every penny in my possession if you can show me a more pointless creature.* And, as I’m sure you are aware, there is a direct correlation between a person’s fear of wasps and their attraction to you. As my fear of wasps is pretty much on a par with my fear of oblivion and the Empty Child from Doctor Who (a story which I will explain another time), this creates a problem.
Last summer, myself and four friends were minding our collective business at a bus stop when a wasp decided to buzz its way into our little group. I quickly snapped into my usual course of action and flailed out of its way, but – clearly sensing my fear – it promptly did a nosedive down my top and stung me somewhere I would rather not be stung, thank you very much. In hindsight, I can understand why my friends found the sight of me stood at a bus stop with my hands shoved down my top and trying to coax the bloody thing out quite amusing, but at the time it was terrifying.
This year my one-woman battle against wasp-kind continues; it is documented – as much of my teenaged life is – on Twitter.
* I won’t. But I will be very impressed.