Oh, here we go. Great. So you’ve been schlepping around Walmart and you spotted me. “Look, a bird!” you say, the most excited you’ve been in eleven years. Congratulations.
You’ve probably told your significant other all about me by now and said something like, “How’s it gonna get out?!” Well, newsflash bonehead, I’m gonna fuckin’ die in here, and that’s that. No one’s coming to save me. There’s no magical Walton Family task force designed to track me down and lovingly set me free. They’re just gonna find me flopped on the floor in the dog food aisle in a few days, a pile of feathers and guts to be swept up and dumped out with the rest of the Walmart filth.
Maybe you’re one of those funny guys who says something like, “Oh, I bet the bird’s just here for the good deals!” Really funny, asshole. So glad I survived West Nile virus for this.
You think I didn’t have dreams and desires before flying into this fluorescent hell via the secret entrance only birds know about? You think I never wanted to eat a ladybug or experience the highs and lows of parenthood?
By now you’re probably trying to guess “what kind of bird” I am. “Duuhhhh is it a raven?” You fat fuck, fuck you.
I used to soar through the clouds like a god, the wind in my feathers and a fresh worm in my belly. Now my diet is reduced to whatever your bratty kid decided to rip open and spill on the floor that day. Usually Cocoa Puffs. What the hell are those?
I spend my final hours hopping around from industrial light fixture to industrial light fixture, awaiting the inevitable while you take pictures for a couple of cheap likes on an Instagram post (or, if your life is particularly depressing, an entire Instagram story).
Well, go ahead and have your little chuckle and snap your little picture, because last night I regurgitated orange chunks into that Walmart potato salad you just put in your cart. Who’s laughing now, jabroni? Still not me, because I’m going to die in this godforsaken Walmart and no one is going to remember me.