There was an insect in my office. I don’t really know what sort it was. It buzzed. It was shaped like a wasp, but striped like a bee. I’ll call it a basp.

There isn’t any way to get a trapped basp out of your office without a basp-keeper suit and, surprisingly, I don’t have one of those.

So I just sat and listened to it ping off the screen on the window and felt bad that it would die there. And there’s something worse about dying when no one knows or really cares what species you even are.

I have a wasp sting on my hand from a few weeks ago. Occasionally it puffs up a bit, like a mosquito bite.

The stings last longer than the basp will, I reckon. There’s a hell of a metaphor there. A hell of one.