SOMETHING ABOUT FEATHERS
Almost all normal men at my age discover that what they really want is an expensive Italian sportscar, a no-fault divorce, and a not particularly talkative trophy wife.
Red or black, over and done with, and blonde.
In that precise order.
I am defective. And comfortable being so.
Six years ago Savage Kitten broke up with me because the relationship no longer worked for her. Yes, we are still good friends, and I've never had the urge to drive over her "accidentally". No, I don't own a vehicle with which that might have been done, and there wasn't a bimbo in the wings.
By most standards that makes me less of a man.
If I had ever sought the approval of my peers, I would be a non-smoking food-neurotic exercise freak with a four wheel drive.
Es ist mir scheißegal was sie denken.
What I realized yesterday was that what I really want is someone who will happily come over because I have lots of books, and enjoys going out for pastries and milk tea. After which we'll have a walk together.
Someone who will enjoy looking at the parrots with me.
As well as the crows and hummingbirds.
The seagulls not so much. I still haven't figured out why they hang around Sue Bierman Park at the same time as the parrots. The crows are there because they're fascinated by loud squawky green egomaniacs who seem sociable but are clearly quite imperfectly socialized, and the hummingbirds are little pea-brains who just like flowers.
There are also robins, thrushes, and tits.
Plus finches and blackbirds.
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