I'm an old romantic. I once spent a month training a hundred butterflies to carry rose petals. On valentine's day I commanded my winged servants to fly into my girlfriend's bedroom and each drop a petal on her bed whilst she was sleeping. It was a disaster. I knew she was afraid of moths, but I didn't realise that she wouldn't be able to make the distinction. Looking back I should have realised that being mobbed by a hundred butterflies would have been enough to send most people into a panic attack, just because of the sheer number of them. It's a bad thing to wake up to, I suppose.

To make matters worse, the petals attracted a herd of African killer bees, but they were no ordinary African killer bees. They had been infected with radioactive nuclear energy, enhancing their stinging ability tenfold. In her panicked state she angered the bees, forgeting her lifelong allergy.

Thousands of them swarmed her room, stinging her without regard for what should have been a day of love. She died moments later. Her favourite film had always been My Girl and she always cried when Mcauley Culkin's character died from bee stings, while I'd laugh at her for crying over a kids film. I like to think that she at least appreciated the irony of her being stung to death by bees as I cried outside her window, but the doctor said she would have been in too much pain to appreciate anything.

James, London.

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