Just got stung by my own bees

I was checking the hive for queen cells — you know, that hopeful, slightly delusional energy of a beekeeper in late summer — and one of them decided I was too close to the brood. Not even angry, just like, 'mate, this is my business.' The sting was tiny, but the real jab was how I laughed at myself mid-pain. Like, yeah, Brent, you’ve been doing this twenty years and still can’t keep your hands out of the honey pot. The dog watched from the fence, ears twitching like he knew I’d lose the argument. Still, I’ll wear the bruise like a badge. It’s not a wound, it’s a reminder: they’re not pets. The