5PM. Shat on by adorable bird. Oh, I’ve just been told it’s a finch. That’s good luck, right, or is it only if it lands on your right shoulder or something? In Judy Blume’s book, Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself, a bird shits on Sally and her grandmother tells her she should be glad ’cause it’s good luck. If so, I’ll take it. Oh, I’ve just been told to dream on.

I share this story because, well, it’s not everyday a bird shits on you, but also because of my reaction to it. It didn’t involve flailing about, yelling, “Dammit, now I have to shower again! Finch bastards! Die! Die!” I said, “Oh, man, little birdie, you shit on me,” wiped the little poo (it was a little finch) from my legs–dive bombed at an angle, I guess–and threw away the dirty napkin. I knew the lack of anger or wanting to vomit resulted from my being a vegan. I don’t let shit get to me (severely depressed me is different; it’s an illness).

The atmosphere changed after that, though. Bummer. I’d scored one of the more comfy chairs, a refreshing breeze cooled, and I’d settled in with book in hand and iced soy chai at my side when it happened. Paranoia grew until I was certain creepy crawlies roamed over me (whom I love, but still) and more shit was yet to come. Finches surrounded me, causing flashbacks of the bedroom scene in The Birds. Sigh.

I bid adieu to the birdies hoping like jury duty, once you experienced it, you were off the hook for the next several years.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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