Humans love to show off having opposiable thumbs to secretly compensate for the inter-specifies dream of being able to fly. Me, I don’t have to dream, just get on a plane and make fun every bird I see; Why would I want wings I have to flap for six or more hours, when we have a machine that flies me on it’s wings while I take an in-flight nap? And don’t even get me started on how unhelpful birds are compared to the flight attendents–or how flight attendents also are way hotter than any bird. Or how the only time someone decides to use my van as a toilet? It’s almost ALWAYS a bird. Almost. . . .Maybe I should’ve been more chill about it. Maybe I should call her and ask if she’s willing to get back together with me if I just pretend I never had a car I worked and saved for over five years with leather seats that, after a week out of town for work and sitting in the hot sun, the smell was the only thing I couldn’t scrub, spray, bleach, or hire someone to make go away. I did push her into it by having to go out of town for work, and she warned me what I would end up with if I didn’t text back faster. . .and she was right, I did end up with shit in the end. . .