Sammy gives me dysentery, but I love her none the less. I confess the hard line facts presented in axiom: I’m 20-something with a cringe and female with distaste for cleavage displays or shaved legs. Gentrification of the genderless, and yet I persist in a rather somewhat kind of normal day-to-day existence.

People used to play “connect-the-dots” with the moles on either arm, twisted back and meaning less. My past plight is meaningless. I might be predisposed to drama; but quiet, shy and full of shit. Alliteration and assonance plague me quite by accident, and I’m told every glitch is a disease.

Therefore, the conclusion given and surmounted to is that I am merely sick. Stay back, and watch the flowers grow over tired eyes and plastic dreams. Kick me. Kiss me. Let me be. This is the uncensored current selection running through the sand in my head. If I don’t write it down, it shifts into the fog.

Sammy gives me dysentery, but I love her none the less.

I had to find Sammy a new home while I was going through a rough patch.  I did so in her best interest.  I’m now working with an adopted Timneh Grey named Rudy.  Rudy’s been a nervous plucker his whole life. I haven’t known him very long, but he’s a handful of trouble.  He finally has enough feathers to look like a bird though…so, here I am with my 22-year-old, feather plucking friend.