I’m having a hate affair with birds these days, so much so that I’ve been driven to post my anxiety on Tha Blahg. Don’t fear, Mr. Hitchcock, my love for your fine film has not been and will not be influenced by this unfortunate turn of events.
You see, birds don’t like me. (Prime example: the bird that had no grace on my already-so-awful day.) They delight in torturing me. I’m very sure they have diabolical tendencies. Let me persuade you.
Once a week, a bird exhibits signs of laxative abuse on my car. It’s as though these birds get food poisoning and use my car for a toilet stop as they fly south. Or they have drug problems.
The courtyard of my apartment building (read: the entrance and exit to my humble abode) is littered with bird sightings. It’s their hangout. It’s their Peach Pit, if you catch my drift. And, if you catch this drift as well, you’ll understand what that means when I pass through said courtyard: my shoes get ruined. This. Is. Not. OK. At all. The most recent victims now have bird excrement on their bows.
For this reason alone, I pray Little Jenny Humphrey will command her minions to get rid of the birds. Like, pronto.