I, Pigeon. (Alt Title: Why does my crotch smell so facey?)

Sitting alone at the coffee shop early this morning, I watched a pigeon get struck by a trolley car. Or a trolley car get struck by a pigeon. I don't know, I guess whoever started it doesn't really matter, the point is that the pigeon lost. The trolley will cut a pigeon. 

The pigeon was dead, but only on its left side. The right side was determined to fly away, or perhaps its right side believed it was flying, because it continued to flap awkwardly as cars drove by. In between sips of latte, I watched and made those teeth clenched sucking in noises each time a car's tires would send more feathers flying. 

The bird wouldn't die, even despite its being dead. Such optimism in the face of adversity. 

I am that bird.

No, I am the road.

An old Chinese trash collector man walked into the street and swept the bird into his dustpan and dumped it into his rolling trash bin. "Not dead yet! Not trash yet!" I murmured, quietly angered by the indignity. 

I am that trash collector.

No wait, I am the broom.

I pulled my finger out of my ear to inspect whatever my pinky had been rooting around for this entire time, and wondered why nothing deep ever happens to me. I never get to be a metaphor. It's not fair, and frankly I think this blog suffers because of it. It would've been nice if that whole "I am that bird" thing back there had worked out, that sounded deep. 

Hold on. It's coming together now. If the trolley is vodka cranberry, and the bird trying to fly while half dead is anything like me trying to steal a room service cart full of grilled cheese and french fries and bring it in the elevator down to my hotel room last night, then maybe I am that bird. 

Are you following me on this? I have a crazy hangover, so I might be off on this, but bear with me.

If bachelorette party weekends are the coffee shop, and I am the bird, then the eternal struggle between life and death is the floor lamp I wrestled last night and broke, then put in the elevator with my cart of grilled cheese to take to my room so the hotel would never find out. And the people who witnessed the bird get hit by the trolley are a metaphor for the hotel manager who saw the bride-to-be and I dragging hotel property down the hall and into the elevator on the security camera and came looking for us.

This is getting good. Really deep shit. 

And the room service guy who I trusted enough to open my closet and show him the lamp and ask his advice for how to proceed in the matter would be the trash man, because well, I don't know if that trash man is a tattletale, but this guy definitely was. It's a good metaphor though because they both sweep up things that aren't dead yet and/or have a trusty kind of face but are extremely disloyal.

Then there's the elevator mechanic. I might need help with this one.

My friend swiped the wrench out of his tool belt on our ride up in the elevator, and when he discovered it missing, he called our room to accuse us of stealing it. 

"One of you turkeys stole my wrench," he said. 

"Gobble gobble," friend replied. 

So he turned off our suite's electricity. Wait, ok I remember now, that's when I started the fight with the lamp. I was confused about why the lights had gone out. But anyway, our room went dark and quiet as revenge for stealing his wrench. So we threw it back in the elevator and pressed the down button. That mechanic is God, taking and giving life/electricity all willy nilly, and also all-powerful/has no sense of humor.

And in an unexpected twist, God (real life God, not metaphor God who was played by the mechanic) is me (coffee shop me, not vodka me) because I watched the whole bird scene play out and God watches my whole life scene play out, and God probably makes those sucking air in through clenched teeth noises at me too. 

Oh, and my friend Ani is the road, because I sat on her face last night.