You can fuck yourselves because NOW I AM ON A FARM SAFE AND FAR AWAY FROM ALL OF YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUU….
…oh wait. There is this thing? “Nature”? I am looking around me. I am noticing this thing. It is green. It is strange. It is sort of seething. With bug-life. Little legs. Antennae.
Dear wasps, fine, you can be out in this “nature” thing that seems to be unavoidable on a farm, BUT FUCK YOUUUUUUUU for trying to take over my New York apartment, and also goodbye New York apartment because after four ceiling cave-ins, one massive wasp takeover, and the revelation that our management company is a cross between Satan and a cartel… we are moving.
when your building management co sends an exterminator who shows up in shorts & a t-shirt, is somehow more scared of the wasps than you are (“Girl, you go first”), and who refuses to approach the wasp nest close enough to spray it. “Girl I don’t wanna get stung, yo,” he says, with impeccable logic. Followed up by: “So hey, you single?”
On the flip side, MIRACULOUS is when New Dramatists gives you the keys to a calm safe haven (called, appropriately, Seventh Heaven) so that you can shelter from the storm and keep your eyes on your laptop instead of your wasps.
You know when you’re a child, and you have a nightmare, and that nightmare is that your ENTIRE HOUSE is filled with gigantic, flying, stinging, horrible yellow-jackets?
And then you know when you become an adult, and you open the door to your apartment, and you walk into THAT EXACT NIGHTMARE?
Oh, that’s never happened to you? Just wait. The older you get… the greater the chances…
Which is all to say, thank god for good friends, their spare bedrooms, their fearlessness as they wade with you back into the maelstrom of yellow-jackets to retrieve a change of clothes, and their quick-wittedness and quick-fingeredness as they swipe the St George gin off the wasp-crawling counter on the way out.