Hello, my little bluebird

So my little breaded veal, how's life treating you? Happy and full of good cheer? Ready to greet the day like a ray of sunshine? Probably not; more or less, it's the feeling of being a diabetic who just had their big toe amputated and the person closest to you just gave you a box of chocolates and a pair of flip flops--and they smiled giving you your gift. Always remember this my minions: a good attitude will get you everywhere and a lousy attitude will get you to read my blog.

Even though there are times I go through crippling self doubt (enough to put Brian Wilson back in his sandbox), I somehow manage to go through the routine. Listen, I know I'm an odd gal and strange things set me off. At the supermarket, I have to fight an odd urge to squeeze the cheese balls (big yellow or wine colored, covered in nuts; tell me they don't just scream "smash me please!"). When I was a kid, I used to mush the Wonder bread. It drove my mother crazy to the point where she stopped taking me to the market altogether. All around N.Y. are loaves of mutilated bread with my finger prints all over them.

So let me tell you about a dream I had: I'm a bluebird flying along. A hunter catches me in his sights, shoots me--I fall, a dog picks me up and drags me to the hunter. He takes one look at me, throws me into the bushes, and I die alone, only to be picked apart by a family of squirrels.

What does it all mean? Now, I seek a metaphor that could closely resemble who I am.
The graceful bird, the mythical unicorn, cheeky monkey or just a clever horse. I would probably be the pig. Born under the sign of the pig (or boar--whatever you prefer). I don't know what my sign signifies, just that I was told quite a bit in my younger days that I had ham hands. Apparently, I had a propensity for dropping and breaking things (ham hands seemed silly; shouldn't it have been hoof hands? Furthermore, I've never actually seen a pig pick up anything but who knows?

While I still have you here let me share this story with you.

When I was a teenager, at 2 in the morning, I found myself being followed by a group of youths for about four long blocks. They walked behind me, making oink noises and throwing beer cans at me. The beer cans were empty of course; why would you waste good beer on a sow? So did I have a girly meltdown? Fly into a rage? No, I finally got home and suppressed my feelings with carbs. The great thing is I get to write about it and tell you the boys who did this all wound up dying in a fiery car crash, hit by a drunk driver. I don't know this for sure, but this is my story and I end it as I see fit.

Have a sunshine day my little sparrows; remember to avoid the hunters.