You aren’t going to believe me when I tell you this, but I’m peeking out my window, looking at the sun lazily rising over Biscayne Bay, and I see at least four bees trying to get in the window. They’re banging repeatedly against the glass, buzzingly angrily, they’re the Africanized sort I’m sure. If they get in here — if they find a way in here — I am doomed. You can’t negotiate with angry honey bees.
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