AHOY

🚨 I HAVE A VERY IMPORTANT LIFE DECISION TO MAKE. 🚨

I need adult supervision.

Unfortunately…

I’m the adult.

So that’s not gonna help.

Now…

Every single one of you knows that I fucking HATE birds.

Not dislike.

Not “I’d rather avoid them.”

I have a blood feud with those tiny feathered assholes.

And before anybody says…

“They’re just birds, Heather.”

EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU.

They tried to assassinate me.

TWICE.

ON TWO COMPLETELY SEPARATE OCCASIONS.

As a child.

I’m convinced birds have some kind of underground crime syndicate.

They pass my picture around every spring.

“TARGET HAS BEEN LOCATED. INITIATE OPERATION SHIT ON HER.”

HOWEVER…

I have found myself in a bit of a predicament.

See…

I enjoy rum.

I stumble around like I have a peg leg anyway…

(Thank you, Multiple Sclerosis. Very cool.)

My right eye still isn’t pulling its weight, so honestly…

An eye patch is becoming less of a fashion statement and more of a medical accessory.

SO MY BRAIN…

Being the smooth-brained, ADHD-powered chaos goblin that it is…

Immediately went…

“…Well shit. Guess we’re becoming a pirate.”

Because obviously that’s the next logical step.

Not physical therapy.

Not a hobby.

PIRACY.

Now…

A pirate requires certain things.

☠️ Rum.

☠️ Eye patch.

☠️ Peg leg.

☠️ Ship.

☠️ The ability to yell…

“AHOY, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

…at absolutely inappropriate times.

And most importantly…

☠️ A PARROT.

Here’s where shit gets complicated.

To become the pirate I was clearly destined to be…

I must willingly invite…

A BIRD…

Into my own fucking house.

Do you people understand the level of character development this would require??

I’d literally be sleeping next to the enemy.

What if it knows?

What if birds have generational trauma too?

What if its great-great-grandmother was one of the pigeons that tried to end my bloodline?

What if this whole thing is just…

Bird revenge.

Imagine waking up at 3:17 in the morning…

To hear…

“BITCH…WE REMEMBER.”

…from somewhere in the darkness.

ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT.

And parrots live for like…

SEVENTY DAMN YEARS.

That’s not a pet.

That’s a hostile roommate who will outlive me.

I’m gonna spend thousands of dollars feeding this flying velociraptor…

Only for it to call me a dumb bitch in MY OWN VOICE.

Or scream…

“HEATHER’S POOPING!”

Every single time I go to the bathroom.

Or answer the phone before I can.

“SHE’S DRUNK AGAIN. CALL BACK TOMORROW.”

Or learn every single cuss word I know…

Which means this bird would have a vocabulary larger than most politicians.

Then one day the UPS guy shows up…

And from inside my house he hears…

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, STEVE?!”

The best part?

His name won’t even be Polly.

Absolutely not.

His name will be…

Captain Beakard.

CEO of Bird Crimes.

President of Feathered Felonies.

Regional Manager of Emotional Damage.

Anyway…

Should I continue my lifelong war against birds…

Or should I fully commit to my pirate era and adopt the very creature that has spent the last forty years plotting my demise?

🏴‍☠️

Because if I disappear…

Don’t look for me.

Just follow the sound of a parrot screaming…

“YARRR, YOU FAT BITCH!”

…and you’ll probably find my body.