that get me when the zombie apocalypse comes. It’ll be the damn yellow jackets on their rotting corpses. I’m allergic to yellow jacket stings – think peanut allergy.
My husband says I need a multi-gazillionaire BDSM romance novel boyfriend– who wants me to be his girlfriend (for no obvious reason)– but who can use his vast wealth to eliminate the scourge of yellow jackets from the face of the earth. ”Do torture sex on me… now!”
See this post about Fifty Shades of Mom Porn regarding expunging the word “moist” from the dictionary.
I’ve lost two days this week to the side effects of unpleasant medications.
I’ve been stung for the second time in a week. The first time was an accidental human/honey bee collision. I’m allergic to honey bees but not deathly allergic, although it was a near thing. Early this morning we were hiking up a familiar trail – hubby and Jake a few steps ahead of me — apparently they disturbed a nest of yellow jackets which turned and swarmed after me.
So sorry you missed the sight of me running down a steep, rocky hill at top speed – nice to know I can still run at top speed – screaming my lungs out, swatting at yellow jackets. This wasn’t a question of outrunning the person next to me, I had to outrun the swarm.
My allergy to yellow jackets started a few years back when I was stung three times in ten days. I hate them. I want Christian Grey to use his vast fortune to expunge them all for me.
Dear Christian – you can smack me bum all you want if you’ll just rid the world of yellow jackets.