I hate bees. Don't like anything about them. Plain and simple, can't stand them. Everything from their colors (also that of my least favorite football team, the Steelers, whom I dislike more), to their buzzing. However, there was a time I didn't mind them. But, when I was six, my family went on our annual trip to Cleveland's House, a majestic resort in Southern Ontario, nearly three hours west of the Niagra Falls border. Our family rented a cabin each year on the placid lake, surrounded by woods and more cabins. After days filled with fun activities such as water-skiing and fishing, my family would gather on the beach and make bonfires, telling stories, playing games, and making s'mores. One particularly beautiful early August day, I went into the woods with my sister at dusk to gather timber to make the fire for my family, while searching for candidates for being the vessel of my golden brown masterpiece. While searching for sticks, I tripped on a log, fell, and heard a loud pop. I had landed on a bee's nest. Now, these vengeful insects were flying everywhere, so I started to run, amid a choir of buzz bizz buzz. As I rushed to the safety of my parents on the beach, I could feel the now homeless bees pursuing me and stinging me, like I was a star in a Jacka** stunt. Eventually, I escaped the assault, but the damage had been done; I had more than a dozen bee stings on my body, including 5 on my left foot alone! And ever since that day, I have been frightened to death by bees (that aren't voiced by Jerry Seinfeld).