A bee.

I saw a bee on the way back from a run to the store today (I have been running lately, now that the sun is showing its face, in an effort to not be so horribly out of shape).  It was a fuzzy black bumblebee bobbing around in the grass, searching for something special to bring back to her little bee home.

And I thought, ‘gosh, wouldn’t it be simple and easy to be a bee? To fly around in the sun all day digging in flowers and leaves, then go home to a crowded, bustling hive of friends and family, without worry or care or stress?’

But then I had to wonder:  why should bees be happy? Sure they look carefree and engaged, bouncing about as they do, but couldn’t there be a depressed bee? A bee that felt lonely or ostracized by her bee friends. Did bees fear for their job security if they didn’t collect enough pollen? Why couldn’t a bee feel anxiety about where the next flower was?

Bees might get stuck in traffic jams in the hive, have to kiss the queen’s ass, or get bullied to the back of the line to leave the hive in the morning.

And they’d have to put up with all of this without having Game of Thrones to look forward to on Sundays on HBO.

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