Today I was stung by 4 yellowjackets. Or perhaps I was stung by fewer, but more zealous yellowjackets. I got four stings.

I’m kind of glad, actually. I wouldn’t go out of my way to be stung, and I would go out of my way not to be, but it didn’t hurt as much I remembered from when I was five. They hurt less than a tattoo, certainly. They’re really just a needleprick during the actual sting; a few minutes later when the poison really sets in and the stings begin to turn into weals is when they really get sore. I’m hoping the result of being stung is a little more courage and a little less manic arm-waving and girlish squealing when a wasp or bee is circling my head.

Also, a few stings don’t seem so likely to send me into anaphylactic shock as they did the last time I was stung, so that’s good.

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