The Birds (1963)

If you are a bird lover, do not read this post. You will probably end up hating me…eh, fine by me. Read on.

I hate birds. They are dirty, nasty, noisy, dumb creatures. They should die.
My hatred began after my sadistic uncle watched Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" while babysitting me. (And people wonder why I'm such a skittish adult.) Ever since, I've had nothing but disgust, disdain and fear of birds.
In our kitchen there is a vent that as far as I know, has never worked. This lovely spring, a couple of birds moved in; a husband and wife team, if you will. I pounded on the wall beside the vent, yelled out the window for them to 'Find another fucking home!’ and even threatened to torch the little nest they'd built in MY vent.
I've been bitching about these damn birds for weeks. While I was away in Ohio, it seems the wife-bird decided to hatch herself a little family. Like most bitches, she waited until her competition (yours truly) was out of the way to make her move. Now I'm really pissed. All day the little wretched birdies squawk and damn, if they aren't loud!
The Mister and I are not having children; ever. We are firm in that decision. And now two stupid procreating birds override me. I hate birds.
Believe it or not, there is a tiny piece of my heart not covered in ice, and I've stopped pounding on the wall.
Although I could say it is because they're baby birdlings, the truth is: I saw the movie. I'm outnumbered. Those bitches will come in and get me.