Dead Birds Part Two: The Cow Barn

If you missed the first installment of "Dead Birds",  please scroll down to the next post and then rejoin us when you're finished... but I have a sneaking suspicion that you've already read it and that you're here for more blobfish pictures, aren't you? You can admit you were a little... intrigued by the last one. It's okay, this is a SafeSpace* :)

"Look into my eyes! I can offer you freedom from shame! Have courage; the hour is late!"

 

There, I've given half of you what you want already! What a generous and wise woman that Joan is (you all think to yourselves. Go on then... think it!).

However, if you'd rather hear more about ~*~*!me!*~*~, read on!

 

I Have a Slight Wall Eye

I do. My right eye shoots off, slightly, into the Cosmos. My Left Eye, why, that bitch is trained on you; there is no escape from her - but my Right Eye? She is looking somewhere over your left shoulder. This is the only thing Kate Moss and I have in common.

The left eye judges you, the right eye scans for prey

It's unsettling once you notice it, eh?  And I will insist you notice it within 20 minutes of meeting you.


Here's How it Will Most Likely Play-Out Between the Two of Us**:

You: So, yeah... that's how my dog died while saving the entire town from absolute destruction :(

Me: Oh, really? You expect me, with my defenseless, baby-doe eyes, to believe you?

You: Um...yes... I don't see why I would make that up.

Me: Do you know what I don't see?

You: Sorry?

Me: Things that are directly in front of me! Look at me! Look at my eyes! Am I looking at you?

You: Y... uh...yes?

Me: Too true! But what about now? *angles head*

You: Ah, yes, you have a slight wall-eye... that's unnerving. Like a painting that looks after you but not at you.

Me: Indeed! It un-arms you, no? A lullaby of sorts.

You: Eh... they can fix that for you, you know. 

Me: Just like they fixed your dog?

You:  *gasps* You're a monster!

This feature that I possess tends to make others think I am, at best, not a threat, or, at worst, an idiot. These are highly rational, genetic responses - they don't mean to dismiss me or pick on me; their DNA compels them to. And why not? I can't even make my eyes point exactly where I want them to, for Christ's sake! "Something must be deficient in this one". That's what this visual cue that is my wall eye is transmitting to the masses. Tens of thousands of years of being able to immediately (at a genetic level) suss out an evolutionary-dud can't be wrong, right? This physical marker I have has played heavily into brand-new social interactions many times, and it did this time as well:

To The Goddamn Sheep Barn!

*Scratchy smocks are doffed, rain boots are pulled on and the promised excitement that these two actions offer begins!*

Random Sheep Dude: Who wants to help me shear a sheep?

Kids: *terrified silence*

RSD: Aw, come on! It's not bad; we'll grab a male or a female - hard to tell from this angle - and I'll hold it down while you operate the shaver. No trouble, no one will get hurt! It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience!

Kids: *terrified silence*

RSD: You! Yes, you right there - with the Tony Hawk shirt, come here.

Me: Me?

RSD: Yes, madame! Won't you help me shear this sheep?

Me: *fuck my life* Okay.

RSD: Now, let me just grab this girl here *grabs sheep and flips it over* Oh! I guess this here is a boy!

Everyone Else:  Ahahahahahahaha! *Sheep Balls!!!*

Me: *is handed shaver*

RSD: Okay, now, go down in steady, even rows, just like I showed you :)

Me: *shit*

Everyone Else: *Sheep Balls!!!*

I grappled, awkwardly, with the shaver as I tried to shear the sheep (who was freaking the fuck out, by the way) and not look like the idiot I was. It went on forever. Random Sheep Dude was annoyingly encouraging while trying not to laugh at Horribly Goofy Me.

I don't think I need to mention that this was during my "Awkward Phase****" and that I had my mouth accoutrement in full effect. And bad hair. For some reason I was under the impression that I alone didn't need to brush it all that often and that this was "OK". Pretty sure I regularly wore high-tops too at this point and a non-ironic wolf tee shirt. Actually, I know for certain I did. I got my wolf tee shirt in Montreal*** during my 6th grade class trip. It really spoke to me ("This! For all that is holy -this is what you should spend your fifteen dollars on! This is fate, don't you dare not answer the call!") and I knew the message it sent to others was:

"Woah, watch yourself - that's one Bad Dude right there."

I was willing to take on that responsibility. I knew my t-shirt would intimidate the meeker people of the world but I was dedicated to letting them know I was on their side. I was just a way cooler version of them. A fighter. How lucky they were to have me! I wore that shirt to the first day of seventh grade - let those motherlickers know who they're dealing with - along with cut off jean shorts. That was also the last time I ever wore that outfit. Outside of the house that is. Wolves, unicorns and bad haircuts - you get to a point where you just need to accept this stuff about yourself. I have to wait until the hipsters move on though, until I can really fly my White Trash Flag. 

That's Over, What Next?

We are then escorted to the Cow Barn. I can't provide the background tension for you adequately. The kids are all enamored with each other. Protective, rejecting, accepting, shy, nervous; surely we are the first people to ever experience this! No one else can know what this is that I feel; I invented it! The feeling is electric. Glances are shot and met, or in my case, unnoticed. It's all very *now*.  

You remember... don't you?

To The Cow Barn, of Course!

Picnic, the delightful barn cat is doing her thang and catching a spray of milk - straight from the teat - into her mouth. She's up on her hind legs and just charming the pants off of everyone. She's knows what she wants and anyone who thinks less of her for it can go bugger themselves.

She is still one of my idols.

Picnic, sated, scampers off and leaves a void that sucks the air out of the room. What's that Old Cow Man going to want us to do?

Old Cow Man: Who wants to milk Bossy*****?

Kids: *terrified silence*

OCM: Well, dammit, one of you has to.

Kids: *terrified silence*

OCM: You. You in front. Come here.

Me: Me? *one my eyes stares at the teats, the other glances at the exit*

OCM: Am I looking at someone else? (was this a reference to my wall eye? We'll never know.)

Me: Okay.

OCM: Now, squeeze the teat and aim for the bucket.

Me: That's it?

OCM: It ain't rocket science...

Me: Okay *grabs teat and pulls straight down on it. Nothing happens*

OCM: Well don't yank on the damn thing!

Me: (that's how they do it in cartoons! I have seen Donald Duck do this numerous times!)

 Skip to 2:41 and watch until 2:57 for visual proof! This is what I did, too! 
How in Living Hell was I supposed to expect 
anything other than that exact same outcome?

OCM: You're like to pull the damn thing off, yanking like that!

Everyone Else: LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL! (and this was before "lol" was even a thing, so you know it's bad)

Me: *If I just will myself to stop living, will I? How long would it take?*

I was shooed away from there and someone else took over. I blended into the background and laughed off my idiocy. That's your only option at this point. I learned early on that saying "Haha, yeah, I am an asshole/creep/loser!" is a good go-to defense mechanism. It's not as much fun to pick on someone who also thinks it's hilarious. My older sisters can both attest to the fact that it is much more satisfying to see me erupt in a fit of fury and kick over a Monopoly board ("This is an idiot's game!") than it is to see me smile and wink.

;)

Thus Concludes Part Two of Dead Birds - and we aren't even to the Chicken Coop yet!  Are you as eager to hear the conclusion as I am to write it? 

You can prove your ardor below, in the comments section******.

*but you really are a straight-up freak, just so we're clear.

**If someone wants to correct the capitalization of that heading, please do.

***"I got my wolf T-shirt in Montreal" is totally Blam's new band name.

**** Which is still going on as we speak

*****All cows should be named "Bossy"

******