A little, speeding Super Bee. Like me.

Origins.

Where does the name Super Bee come from? A shirt, but I didn't know the REAL answer until just now.

Once, in a fit of being flush with cash, with nothing better to spend it on, I went to Urban Outfitters, and bought three t-shirts to the tune of $110 dollars. The shirs were all tight and ironic, in order of being my favorite to least favorite:

1) A brown shirt, with a yellow fuzzy circle in the middle of it, that said "Super Bee" (pic above).
2) A blue shirt with hearts on it that reads, "Everybody Loves a Jewish Boy." (And isn't it true? We're adorable!)
3) A stupid red shirt, that I still dont know why I bought it, with a pig on it, smiling, holding roses and a sign that says, "Please Don't Eat Me, I Love You!" That shirt makes me look like a stupid vegetarian. Pig is one of my favorite meats, despite my being technically forbidden to eat it. And also, the shirt makes me look fat.

Well, the Super Bee shirt was a hit with Stephen too. He'd call me his lil' Super Bee. It was adorable. I loved it. Other people loved the shirt too, because the bee was so. damn. cute.

It looked fantastic with a two-tone blue belt, some flip flops, and some expensive-"deconstructed" jeans.

And what happened to the damn shirt? Arguably my favorite ironic t-shirt, piece of hipster clothing?

I washed it in a washer with Chapstick. Worse still... I DRIED IT IN A DRYER WITH CHAPSTICK. Nuff said. Stupid Chapstick...the reason for, and bane of my existence.

Needless to say, the Super Bee shirt did not fare well through its ordeal. I now look like a greasy five-year-old, or a sweating trucker whenever I wear the shirt, because of, well, the PROMINENT wax stains in the middle of my stomach.

I tried Stain Stick. I tried hot hot hot water. I fear that nothing will bring my superbee shirt back to wearability. Still, because I see Stephen saying "Hey, my lil' Super Bee," with his bright grin, I can't bear to throw the shirt away. And it sits. With all the other useless shirts I've amassed that I will never wear again. I'll pull it out and think, "Can I look stainy today," only to have the answer "NO, NO, NO," resound through my head.

Apparently, the Super Bee was a car manufactured by Dodge in the late 60s through mid 70s. I feel like I should have one. Yes,the car is a little too Dukes of Hazard muscle car for me, but the NAME! "I gotta go get Leigh, the Super Bee out of the garage," I would say. Leigh. It's much better than the current "Rolf Golf." Ugh. Stupid Rolf.

Stephen still calls me Super Bee, but it's not the same, now that I can't wear the shirt anymore. And that, my friends, is why this blog is Super Bee's. Rest in Limbo, Super Bee. We hardly knew ye.