I hate birds. I think they are disgusting and creepy and gross.
In Las Vegas, there are pigeons everywhere, and I can never look at one without thinking that they are rats with wings. Their little red eyes and that horrible way they waddle around make me so squeamish that I try to avoid even looking at them. They are revolting in every way.
Here, in Texas, where there are dead animals everywhere (Roadkill Capitol, I swear), I have learned not to look at the ground when I drive. Unfortunately, when I ride my bike to and from work, it’s harder not to see the dead birds littering the pavement. There was one huge dead black crow at an intersection I ride through every day and it lay there for weeks, while I studiously stared at the other side of the road. It’s finally gone now, thank goodness.
All of this is to say that birds are one of my biggest phobias. In London, we went to a science museum and there was a big display case about phobias, including a phobia of birds and, well, I couldn’t even look at the stuffed bird on display. Too gross.
At about four a.m. yesterday morning, I woke myself up screaming (and, of course, I woke up Bart too). I’d had this horrible dream that there was a dead mangled bird in my bed and I’d touched it with my foot. I still sort of feel like screaming when I think about it.
I am really glad that didn’t happen when I was in Vegas, though, because I think my parents would have thought I’d gone completely off the deep end.