Birds Sh*t On Me All the Time — Why That Makes Me Lucky

Birds love me, but I don’t love them.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I’ve always hated birds. There’s something incredibly scary about them, how they move their heads from side to side like robots, how they always seem to be watching, how they might take flight in any direction, at any time.

They’re unpredictable, and always look like they know something I don’t.

I’ve only recently started — sort of — liking birds, because I found out they’re direct descendants of dinosaurs.

You have to respect something so closely related to a velociraptor, especially as a kid of the ’90s who still remembers the terror she felt during that kitchen scene in Jurassic Park.

But there’s something about me that makes birds love me. Especially, as a great spot to poop on.

Maybe they smell my distrust of them and want to get back at me. Maybe it’s just my blond hair that calls out to them and makes them want to bomb it. I’m shooting practice, maybe? A walking target? Or was I a hunter in a previous life and they can sense it?

Any ornithologists are welcome to give me their opinion.

What’s Luck Got To Do With It?