I think I have mentioned that I hate birds. I told you that, right? Well, now you know. I fucking hate them. I am contemplating smacking a bird. With a big fucking stick, of course. But not just on a whim. Normally I just accept that there are birds and that their incessant twittering is something that I will have to live with, but not today. If a goddamn bird flies at my head again, I'm going to strike it with my stick as if it were a ball and my stick a Louisville Slugger. Actually, if I could find Anna-Lee's Louisville Slugger I guess I wouldn't need a stick.
By now you must be wondering why I want to hit a bird. Well, let's go back to two weeks ago. I was out in the yard, minding my own damn business, watching the kids bike around the cul-de-sac, when a bird shit on me. Bird-shit on the sleeve of my Red Shirt and the leg of my jeans. You're lucky! you say? Well, define luck. Some cultures hold that you have good luck if you get shit on by a bird. I must be one hell of a lucky girl.
This is not the first time a bird has shit on me. The last time I remember quite clearly: I was lounging on the deck at my parent's house, I was a teenager, it was summertime, and I was reading a book. I had finally gotten comfortable by mushing two chairs together and doubling the cushions, when bird shit landed on my arm. I decided then and there that I fucking hated birds. Birds are fine--as long as they stay the fuck away from me. And don't even fucking ask me if I want to feed the birds at the zoo, because the answer is no. Emphatically, FUCK NO!, to be exact.
Then, last weekend, another trip to the Appalachians for the bi-annual family camping trip. I took Addison to the makeshift toilet at the campsite, where, of course, a fucking bird had made its nest. Addison scared it away from the toilet and it flew right into me, all furious-flapping wings against my chest as I reeled backwards and let out a squeal. Yes, you can laugh, it was probably pretty funny to watch, but I was fucking pissed. Goddamn bird. Don't fly into me. There's a whole fucking forest over there!
Anyway, you can imagine my irritation at simply walking from my patio to the breezeway today and feeling the air off of the wings of a diving robin. I didn't duck today, unlike yesterday, I turned around, and though I was startled by the unprovoked attack, yelled at the bird and threw my hands up in the air.
On the return walk to the back door I picked up a stick. I think the bird saw me, and must know what a stick in the hand is for, because it flew off. I hope it knows that if it didn't have baby birds in its nest I'd take the damn thing down and throw it in the fire pit. I hope those birds grow up soon, because I don't relish the thought of striking a bird with a stick, especially knowing what lengths I'd go to to protect my children.
But I stand firm. The next bird that flies at my head is in for a big fucking surprise. I fucking hate birds.
Update 5/8/13: This afternoon, after exiting my front door and sauntering along the sidewalk, a bird shit on my hand. So I bought lottery tickets. I will let you know if I win. Of course, if I don't and another bird shits on me or flies at my head, I'm not going to be too thrilled.
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