"they can fly so high and they can shit on your head."

No, don't worry, I'm not blogging about Kate Nash. Things have not got quite that dire yet. Actually, Meredith challenged me to write about something I don't like, and since I've been in a pretty good mood lately, I really had to struggle to think of something. Luckily for this blog entry, there's always my old standby: birds.

I effin' hate birds, guys. Like, on the list of Things Erin Hates, not even Hitler, or my emotionally manipulative ex-boyfriend, or, say, the Keane album come anywhere near the number one spot. That spot is reserved solely for birds, those disgusting, creepy, maniacal creatures.

Background: I used to like birds. Well, okay, that's a lie, I never liked them. I didn't want them as pets; I didn't want to watch them eat things from canisters hung on trees; and I didn't think they made particularly soothing Sesame Street residents. (I'm sorry, but am I the *only* person creeped out by the idea of a SIX FOOT TALL bird who is nosey and gets all up in everyone's shit all the damn time?) But I wasn't afraid of them, or anything. Until one memorable day at the beach, when I was tired and punchy from staying up late the night before to watch "The Birds." That's when MY LIFE CHANGED.

There was this kid at the beach, the son of my mom's friend, and he was tossing up mini-chips ahoy to the seagulls. Now, first of all, that is a perfectly good waste of mini-chips ahoy, which as we all know provide the perfect amount of dry, crumbly, quasi-cookie flavor for all your snacking needs. I don't like to see snacks being misused in any way; it's like seeing a Native American chief cry or something. It just makes me feel guilty for living. But also, seeing giant air-rats swoop down to munch on cookies is a little disconcerting. Like, why are birds so gung-ho about eating free food? Did they never get the freshman seminar about not accepting free drinks or food from a stranger? There could be roofies in those cookies!

(Note to self: check availability of patent for roofie cookie.)

Well, this kid (we'll call him Chris. Because that is his name.) noticed my discomfort at these greedy little winged bastards and decided to do what all boys do when they like a girl: torture me. He'd fling those little cookies at my head so that the birds would swoop down next to me to catch them. He was totally Hitchcock and I was his Tippi Hedren, just like in that Vanity Fair article that mere told me about last week. It was creepy and scary and I was very upset.

But, with the resilience of youth, I bounced back. I calmed down and forgot all about his little torture-show, and laid down on the beach to take a nap. I awoke to a strange feeling on my stomach, like a massage by a prozzie who has 3-inch long Lee press-on nails. What could it have been?

Yep. Birds. That little fucker Chris had put chips ahoy all over my stomach and the seagulls had LANDED ON ME to eat them off. I screamed and freaked out, of course, and have been terrified of birds ever since. Ask Courtney; I avoid them at all costs, even if it means I have to cross the street to get away from them.

So this is all to explain how much I hate birds. They are creepy and carry disease and stare at you with their beady little eyes. I mistrust them, and it'll be a happy day for me when they're all extinct.

xx erin