Thursday, March 22, 2012

urban legend

It's starting again. My psychosis is rearing it's ugly head. I am dreading the dealing of it because last year I barely escaped with any semblance of normalcy.

I believe I am an urban legend in the making. The kind of legend where everyone ends up dead. The kind of legend university students study at the risk of their very lives. The kind of legend that makes history.

Let's go back in time, shall we.....

A couple of years ago we renovated a house. Remember that? Man......those were good times.

No, they absolutely were not.

In the course of said renovations we removed boards off the exterior of the house to deal with vermin in the walls.

Go read about it now.

I believe that incident has set forth a darkness so black that we may be swallowed by it and there will be no trace of us anywhere.

A type of voodoo. Black magic. A curse.

People will say, "Remember the Dabels? They were good people." While they hang their heads. Their heads will shake to and fro and their faces will show a mutual understanding. An understanding that our ultimate demise was something we brought upon ourselves. A sort of pity people will feel in their bones.

Those bloody Dabels. They were such dummies.

I suspected that there was a curse set upon us that day, when I watched the man murder all those little birds. I suspected that there would be no end to our torment.

Last April my suspicions started to become a reality. I wrote of my pain and suffering here and here. I do not think, however, I portrayed just how desperate I felt that these birds were pecking into my house.

You see, I was holding out hope. Hanging onto that little thread of silver lining. Holding on to the last bit of optimism I had that this cursed house would be sold by now, and that I would be moved far away from the cedar siding and it's temptation to the bird. That I would be a forgotten soul unto the birds of destruction and mayhem.

But alas, the curse oozes forth into all aspects of my happiness. The house did not sell. In ten months the house did not sell.

Yesterday I worked tirelessly to clean and organize and prove to the laundry Gods that I am a soldier of laundry warfare. I proved worthy, indeed.

We are listing the house again on Monday.

Heaven have mercy on my soul.

As I cleaned yesterday in an effort to make the house presentable for pictures today I heard it.

That horrific sound.

The sound that spreads terror through my veins. The sound that haunts me in my dreams. The sound I fear above all other sounds.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

Noooooooooooooooo..........................

When all is said and done, to whomever is brave enough to write my story, I want my urban legend to make three things very clear. One, it must allude to my beauty and wisdom, obviously. Two, it has to demonstrate, precisely, just how insane the pecking made me. And three, the great bird massacre of 2010 was entirely not my fault. That I am, in fact, the victim in all of this.

7 comments:

  1. Wow. Awesome writing!

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  2. This was awesome...and as I scrolled down to read I saw the little twitter animation of birdies marching with hearts above their heads. Adorable. How could you murder these cute souls???? HAHA!

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    1. You see those little twitter birdies stalking me right? With little hearts above their evil heads. Once they catch me they tear me apart limb by limb. They don't show that part.

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  3. Maybe the birds like you because you're a Disney Princess... ( Cinderella had birdie friends and so did Snow White!)

    Naw, that can't be it.

    Does this mean the man will have to repeat the first birdie offense??

    (AND HEY, when the heck did Blogger add in the ability to reply to a comment?? Oh wait, of course they did...right after I fixed and installed my Intense Debates. Figures.)

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  4. I nearly choked on my lunch reading this... oh my goodness you sure do have a problem with those birds. :) chin up!
    Tanya

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  5. Holy. Good luck selling the house. I have now added a caveat to our list of house hunting criteria...no cedar siding. Who knew?

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