I never thought I’d endanger an entire species. It horrifies the small sliver of my soul that still cares about things other than myself, yet also tickles my ego with the tiniest of feathers. Even if it’s for an abominable reason, if it catches the attention of PETA, then at least I am doing something noteworthy!
I’m the cause of the bee shortage. I’m hunting those poor little creatures and squeezing their precious life juice out for selfish me. The juice goes in a needle, then the needles goes in me.
Oh, you haven’t heard of bee venom therapy?? Earth to you … helllooooooo. Where have you been, hiding under the Rock of Myopic Western Medicine? I predict Bee Venom Therapy will soon surpass Prozac as the most common panacea for all of mankind’s maladies.
Anyway, back to the dead bees. I actually don’t extract the venom myself. That’s too grisly for a classy lady like me. A farmer out in the idyllic wilds of Canada lovingly raises the bees on an organic, range-free, grass-fed (insert more healthy buzz words) farm, tenderly nurturing them, naming and cherishing each as his own offspring.
Then when the time comes for them to sacrifice their lives for the noble cause of human health, he gently hand milks the venom from their surrendered bodies, drenching their lifeless forms with his awed tears of respect.
A wee bit of hyperbole might be lurking in that description, but most of it is true (with the exception of the naming and tears). The costly juice is then shipped to my doctor, who – like a fleshy and soft large bee that has lost his wings – stings me with a man made needle full of the venom. It feels unsurprisingly like … a bee sting, over and over.
Aside from a perfectly natural desire to exterminate the human race by destroying the pollinators of their food, you might be pondering why I would undergo such a delightful experience. The answer goes back to more needles.
I’ve been subjecting myself the last few months to neural therapy, which is a euphemism for “Stab Every Sensitive Part of Your Body with Needles in Hopes That It Makes You Feel Better”, in an attempt to rid myself of a chronic headache. Exchange pain for pain, right?
The treatment goes something like this:
1. One week before appointment: Start panicking. Ponder all the sufferings of humanity to keep things in perspective:
2. Night before appointment: get no sleep
3. During appointment: Lose an hour and a half of oxygen as I hold my breath for dear life while my face, neck, arms, back and mouth are injected with anesthetic and ozone:
Thankfully, it works, when all other remedies failed. I’ve grown to like needles so much (false) that I decided to expand the treatment to include bee venom injections, which allegedly mitigate pain.
So little bees, you have not died in vain. If your precious juice restores my life, I promise to devote all my newfound energy to creating a bee sanctuary out in the wilds of Canada, where bees will be free to do whatever it is that bees do, far from grasping human hands.
In the meantime, I have a very itchy back that would love some scratching, if any of you are in a philanthropic mood. I’m seriously considering renting it out to cats as a scratching post.