Scar Tissue -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

So you want to know why I hate birds? It all boils down to their beady little eyes and their crazy antics that make me hate birds. I hadn't really considered that someone would question this, I thought that after my previous post the answer would be evident. But there are those who are wondering...

My Mom told me that when I was little, like four or five, that I would sit by the window and watch the birds and make up my own little songs to sing about them. She told me this particular anecdote when I expressed my distaste of the creatures.

"I hate birds!" I exclaimed.

"You used to love birds..." Mom said, describing what a joyful and happy child I had been. The bitter teenager that I was, I had imagined myself pressing my nose to the glass of one of the kitchen windows, fingers curled around the sill, watching the flutter of wings and peck of beaks as the birds crowded around the bird feeder. I had just been enjoying reading a book outside on the deck when bird shit splashed down from the shady branches above, landing in a white splotch on my right forearm. I had run inside to wash my arm repeatedly from fingertips to elbow immediately. I was disgusted. I felt soiled. I discarded my clothes in the dirty laundry, just in case the shit had splashed onto my tank top as well. After cleaning up, I swore my undying hatred for birds.

I went back out to finish my L.J. Smith book that I was oh-so-close to finishing, but I had a hard time getting comfortable under the shade of the tree again. I glanced around. It was too hot in the sun. But where were the birds? In the trees, and in the sky, technically I wasn't safe from birds anywhere. My suspicion of birds began...

Coming back to today, do I still feel the same hatred for birds? I'm not sure. I have a certain fascination with birds, for sure, but I have no desire--whatsoever--to be near a bird. I don't mind their singing, their incessant chirping and their flying in the sky, as long as it is far away from me. I do not like their rampant shitting. The fluttering of wings against my body during my last close encounter with a bird is making me cringe inside as I'm writing this.  

And do I even need to mention Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds again? Now there's a scary movie.