Dec 9, 2011
Last week, L.A. got the beans knocked out of her with a seriously FUCKED UP windstorm that left us without power for 4 days. It was totes unpleasant. We had no heat, either. Our puppy was cold, and I got to whining a lot. But others had it much worse.
Take my friend here, for example. It has been up in that tree ever since. I recently began going on morning walks (I’ve lost 10 pounds thus far…skinny jeans, here I come!), and I noticed this little fella on my route the morning after the storm. Look at it, still proudly boasting its red and green splendor against the AM baby blue, with not a breath left in its little body. Legend has it, years ago, a Highland Park pet shop burned to the ground, and a flock of these parrots escaped. They’ve been breeding like airborne bunnies ever since, and today, you can see/hear them in cacophonous clouds, visiting from tree to tree. They’re a loud bunch, but damn, I’m so thrilled they’re our neighbors.
However, Mother Nature said “no” to my friend here. In fact, it was one fat, resounding NO, as I’m pretty certain no living creature would ever voluntarily opt to go in this manner. Imagine, lovelies: You’re flying, you’re majestic (AND cute!), enjoying your freedom and good company, when WOOSH! An 80mph gust snatches you from thin air and slams you against a tree, SO HARD that, in a matter of seconds, you’re left ingrained into the tree bark, unable to fly, breathe, squawk…you’re alone…everything around you is blowing the fuck up…woosh…wooooosh…you’re dead. And your body is just…there. For about a week, anyway, until some fat boy stands directly underneath you and starts taking pictures for 5 minutes, which prompts the nearby house-dwellers to be all “WTF?”, and then they wait until the fat boy walks away before they finally pluck your fragile, brightly-plumed body from the tree and graciously toss it in the garbage: your final burial place, which is shared with heaps of spoiled fridge food that didn’t survive the outage. Your soul, naturally, is in a far better-smelling place.
And, thanks to sick fucks like me, your physical beauty will live on forever. And you will never leave that fucking tree.
This world is a bastard. Lord love a bastard do.
XOXOXO
Dorian

Last week, L.A. got the beans knocked out of her with a seriously FUCKED UP windstorm that left us without power for 4 days. It was totes unpleasant. We had no heat, either. Our puppy was cold, and I got to whining a lot. But others had it much worse.

Take my friend here, for example. It has been up in that tree ever since. I recently began going on morning walks (I’ve lost 10 pounds thus far…skinny jeans, here I come!), and I noticed this little fella on my route the morning after the storm. Look at it, still proudly boasting its red and green splendor against the AM baby blue, with not a breath left in its little body. Legend has it, years ago, a Highland Park pet shop burned to the ground, and a flock of these parrots escaped. They’ve been breeding like airborne bunnies ever since, and today, you can see/hear them in cacophonous clouds, visiting from tree to tree. They’re a loud bunch, but damn, I’m so thrilled they’re our neighbors.

However, Mother Nature said “no” to my friend here. In fact, it was one fat, resounding NO, as I’m pretty certain no living creature would ever voluntarily opt to go in this manner. Imagine, lovelies: You’re flying, you’re majestic (AND cute!), enjoying your freedom and good company, when WOOSH! An 80mph gust snatches you from thin air and slams you against a tree, SO HARD that, in a matter of seconds, you’re left ingrained into the tree bark, unable to fly, breathe, squawk…you’re alone…everything around you is blowing the fuck up…woosh…wooooosh…you’re dead. And your body is just…there. For about a week, anyway, until some fat boy stands directly underneath you and starts taking pictures for 5 minutes, which prompts the nearby house-dwellers to be all “WTF?”, and then they wait until the fat boy walks away before they finally pluck your fragile, brightly-plumed body from the tree and graciously toss it in the garbage: your final burial place, which is shared with heaps of spoiled fridge food that didn’t survive the outage. Your soul, naturally, is in a far better-smelling place.

And, thanks to sick fucks like me, your physical beauty will live on forever. And you will never leave that fucking tree.

This world is a bastard. Lord love a bastard do.

XOXOXO

Dorian

Blog comments powered by Disqus

About
http://dorianwood.com Subscribe via RSS.