Today, I was attacked by nature.
I was outside, doing my part to be a good neighbor and bring the trash can back down to the house, when suddenly I noticed an odd sensation in my right hand.
So I looked down and discovered that half of my right hand was entirely covered in fire ants, and the “odd sensation” was actually THE BURNING PAIN OF THEIR FLAMING, VENOMOUS BITES!
Not surprisingly (for someone with a severe anxiety disorder, I mean), I’ve spent this entire day manically flexing my hand to make sure I haven’t lost any mobility in my muscles, and wondering if there is any such thing as “Fire Ant Anti-Venom” and should I really be making more of an effort to find some, along with trying really hard not to freak out and envision their poison slowly yet relentlessly traveling up my arm in order to wreak its deadly havoc throughout my entire body.
So I just emailed this beautifully crafted story of my day to a friend of mine, and do you know his response was? “Be thankful, because when I get bitten by fire ants, I can die.”
Thanks, dude. Way to completely eliminate All Dramatic Impact Whatsoever from my story.
And don’t even get me started on the conversation I just had with another male friend who, when I gently suggested that women might possibly have had more of a role in the shaping of our history than would be suggested by the traditional, “accepted” textbooks, went off on a rant against “revisionist” history, where clearly “revisionist” was a code word for “fascist, communist, anti-American, mother-hating, puppy-killing, Nazi brainwashing propaganda.”
Geez! What does a girl have to do around here to get a friendly audience?