I have a history of hating birds. It’s a deep, all-encompassing complete loathing of those winged creatures. Where they are not feathery, they are wrinkly and scaly. They have beady little eyes and horrific, threatening beaks, and talons. Disgusting and the stuff of nightmares (Thank you, Alfred Hitchcock)
Not to mention, they do something called “molting.” Revolting.
My hatred of birds dates back to when I was pet-sitting a neighbor’s two dogs and bird when I was 12. I opened the cage to feed the bird, and suicide dive-bombed me and seized it's opportunity at freedom, squawking and screeching at me. As the beast did a victory lap around the house, I cried until my dad came to put the bird back in the cage. I never got over it.
Birds have never forgiven me either. While in Jamaica this past year, the hotel we stayed at had a couple talking parrots in cages. Neither bird liked me. Contrary to my usual state, I’m not just being paranoid, oh no. As I was walking to the beach one day to meet my friends, I stopped to talk to the chatty parakeet, Buddy. Buddy was not only not in a chatty mood, he was apparently angry. As soon as I stopped next to his cage, he climbed down from the top of his cage and started attempting to rush the cage where I was standing and spread his wings out to be threatening. Again and again and again. According to a hotel employee, he was angry about some of the colors on my cover-up. Delightful.
Again, birds and I don’t get along.
When I was two I once caught a pigeon. Maybe that’s why the dreadful accident of Monday happened. Karma, as I understand, can come back to bite ya.
I was in Oakland to get some forms filled out for grad school, and walking down Forbes Avenue, smiling at everything and feeling pretty damn good about life. Having some of my life figured out, even for the moment, is a nice change.
Anyways, I was walking near The O restaurant when I feel this whoosh feeling of air on my head. Instinct kicked in, and I ducked. In that instant, a pigeon flew from the heavens directly where my head was located a second earlier. My hair, which is a delightfully bright and obnoxious shade of auburn, which I love quite dearly is NOT to be treated as pigeon food. As much as those red-eyed devils may think so, I am not for eating. The monster landed on the ground and circled around, glaring at me with its one eye. I am still certain it was looking for a second opportunity to swipe a chunk of hair.
I could not suppress my little yelp of horror at this traumatizing event, and lifted my eyes to the two guys standing on this dreadful corner. My eyes were wide and frantic as I locked eyes with one of them.
OhmyGod, WTF, I mouthed to them, as I was still listening to the soothing sounds of Benny and the Jets via my iPod and couldn’t actually converse. They just gave me a disgusted “Ew,” look and offered no condolence. Chivalry is dead, I tell ya. Just now, as I type this, I remember I was wearing my WVU charm necklace. No wonder they gave me the impression that me and my kind are not welcome in Oakland. I’m not.
One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just doesn’t belong. What do you do when you’re the thing that doesn’t belong? And everyone and everything knows it and will do their absolute best so you know it?
You dance it out. Hello 1980’s rock music and Ray Bans!
No comments:
Post a Comment