Here's the thing: I look out the window and see tiny velociraptors hopping around in the dropped birdseed.
Some of my favorite things are parrots shouting about poop and crows doing eerily smart things.
I have a second-edition copy of the textbook Ornithology by Frank B. Gill with "Happy 19th birthday!" written inside the cover by my mom. Yes, that was my 19th birthday present. It was awesome and continues to be awesome 6 years later. I can flip to any random page and be instantly absorbed (and afflicted with Bird Tourettes, a disorder which causes me to give unprovoked explanations of the tendons in perching birds' feet to unsuspecting and profoundly not-interested friends and family).
I click on links to serious articles about ostrich penises, think that huge and terrifyingly awesome shoebill storks must have brought Chuck Norris, and have to point out every single bird I see when out and about.
Sometimes people want to kill me.
I am lucky enough to have inflicted my badass gun-packing motorcycle-riding significant other with a degree of ornithophilia. I imagine there are others like me out there who are not so lucky, and maybe this blog will reach out and say, "Hey, let's talk about documented cases of necrophilia in mallard ducks" to someone.
Or, I may just be talking to myself on the internet. AWRIGHT!
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