It's over. We're breaking up.
I know this must come as a shock to you, especially in light of your recent over-the-top gifting to me over the past Christmas holidays, and while that was an orgiastic feat of generous outpouring in terms of financial commitment and sheer logistics, I don't know if there was some clerical error involved, or if you and I have different ideas about boundaries, or really, what the fresh hell was going on with all that crap you had delivered to what used to be my home.
On December 13th, just as I was beginning to think about nog and lights, I received at my door one day a delivery of a nice fruit tree with a bird. Interesting and cute, and I let you know so, via a quick text. "Perhaps she is unaware of my personal distaste for birds," I thought to myself as I fetched a shovel and planted what turned out to be a lovely pear tree in my backyard. I let the bird, I don't know, like a pheasant or something, I thought, do what it wished, and it jumped down into the yard. This was just fine, and a somewhat pleasant start to the gift-giving season. Your thoughtfulness in the tree selection was evident, inasmuch as it would "keep on giving," and I figured the bird would simply fly off for friendlier skies after a short while.
The following day, I was awakened by a another knock at my door - same deliveryman, looking bemused as he handed me another sapling-plus-bird combo. As I signed for this, checking to see if it was really identical to the previous day's delivery, he handed me a crate with two more birds in it. This was becoming extremely odd, as I have mentioned that I don't particularly care for birds and now had a total of four, which is four more than I have ever wanted. I planted the tree and turned the birds loose in the backyard, settling down with a copy of Audubon's.
Over the next two days, you sent me 16 more fucking birds. Partridges - which don't like being in trees, I might add, as they nested all over my yard and deck; doves, & blackbirds - kind of creepy, hon. Finally, to top this all off, you sent me hens. I have more eggs now than I can ever use, and have been pawning them off on neighbors, friends I used to have, and the deliverymen who frequent my poor house. My yard is a giant birdhouse, and seed covers the grass. But of course, there was to be more.
On the fifth day of this madness, an armored vehicle pulls up in the driveway, and nice man called Simon gets out with a briefcase chained to his wrist. He delivers five golden rings to me, and makes it clear that his firm is obligated under contract to arrive each successive day for the next week, to deliver five gold rings everyday. I ask, "Why not drop them all off right now?" He explains that this is not the arrangement to which he's been contractually obligated, makes a funny face, and then leaves. I don't think Simon likes birds much either. Of course, after Simon left, another tree and ten more goddamn birds were delivered. I'll be honest with you - by the fifth day, I wasn't even trying to plant the stupid trees anymore, and they are leaning against the fence in the back, root balls still in burlap, dropping rotten fruit on the ground and mouldering in birdshit and seeds. It's a nightmare.
But the best was yet to come. Over the next two days after that, you branched out, including swans (which need water - did you know that? I have a freaking kiddie pool back there now, also covered in bird feces) and geese, the loudest bird imaginable. They never shut up. Constant goose noise comes from my place now, and goose crap is the slickest thing you'll ever step in. Thirty-nine, sweetheart. Thirty-nine more squawking avian invaders crapping all over my place and molting like feathers are butter and the whole world is their toast. At this point, I hadn't slept in a week - what with the constant bird sounds around my house, the neighbors siccing the neighborhood association on me, and the Health Department stapling things to my front door. I did get ten more gold rings during this period, but I had to pawn them all down at Savino's on the corner just to feed the birds and clean up after them. I broke my shovel moving the trees and trying to shovel shit, and at this point was living on nothing but eggs and water. The geese started looking tasty. Dead birds are quiet birds.
Just when I thought the barnyard theme couldn't go any further, a truck backs up on day eight of this crap and disgorges eight stinking bovine monsters onto my property. As I'm contending that this must be some kind of mistake - because no one is this fucking crazy, right? - eight women showed up with buckets and started milking the fuckers right in the middle of the daily tree and birds deliveries. At least one of them made off with some of the rings that day, I think. And my blender. Of course, they would be back. It was on this day I began to aggressively kill some of the birds (and one of the trees) with my shotgun.
On successive days, more cows and milkmaids would arrive, along with Lords. I had to look this up. Apparently, you found and paid British people to come jump around at my house. Everyday. For three days. You are deranged. Did you know that lords expect to be fed? So do maids. Likewise, pipe and drum corps guys. I mean, they sound great, but this is a residential neighborhood, and on top of armored trucks and loud-ass live music, I got cows and eventually, 184 (more or less with the deaths) scratching, pecking, egg-laying feathered fucks roaming around the place. Shitting. Shitting like they never goddamn stop. Did I mention that? Did I mention that they shit over everything in my entire life? That my life is now encrusted in a hardened white shell of birdshit? This is in addition to the giant hordes of people who wander in and out, looking for food when I all I have is eggs and milk and rotten pears and trees every fucking place. And speaking of hoarding, do you know how it looks when you have trees and buckets of milk piled every place? Like you're a maniac. A bathrobed maniac with a shotgun. At this point, I was wandering to and fro, fending off attorneys and policemen, angry farmers and neighbors, just throwing eggs and shooting at whoever had the misfortune to stumble into the insane Christmas explosion you made out of my house.
A party's not a party any more when it goes on for five days and you don't know anybody! Leaping and dancing and music is fine - I like fun like anybody - but when it's happening in an insane birdyard with cows milling about, it's like Bollywood gone wrong! And there's no booze - just milk and eggs and dead birds, people. 40 rings doesn't even begin to cover the expense I incurred, and Savino won't talk to me anymore anyway.
In short, I now associate you and our relationship with one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, and will need years of therapy even to be able to hear birdcalls without collapsing into a fetal ball of floorbound fear and rage, slinking off to a corner and peeing on myself. We can no longer see each other, and I have filed a restraining order in addition to a standing "DO NOT DELIVER" order with the postal service and most major shipping companies.
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