Many years ago, my brother-in-law was working a high school summer job that involved … oh, I don’t even know what it was. Something like landscaping, I guess. His crew had stopped for lunch near a school sports field in order to ogle a girls’ soccer practice, and my brother-in-law — let’s just refer to him by his name, which is Joe — saw that a seagull was trying to steal his sandwich. With the intent of scaring it away, Joe picked up a screwdriver and threw it, but some horrible twist of fate sent the tool flying end over end and plunging directly into the bird’s back. Like, impaling the damn thing. So here’s this seagull with a screwdriver gruesomely embedded into its flesh, staggering around with its wings splayed out, and Joe figures it’s going to die and better to end its life quickly before it tries to fly off with a fatal wound. So he picks it up by the head and starts swinging the body around and around in order to break its neck. That’s the point where Joe looks up and notices, for the first time, that all the girls are staring at him — a freaky-looking hunched-over guy who’s got a death grip on a seagull and is whipping it around in a circle, and it looks like he gouged it with a screwdriver first, what the fuck — with open-mouthed horror. As Joe carries on, feeling caught in a nightmare, some of the girls start crying.
I have no idea what happened after that. I’m only telling you this because you know how the trend with blogs lately is to have a super meaningful conclusion to a random story? Like my kids melted down at Target but that’s okay because parenthood is like a box of beautiful chocolates lying in the sun or whatever? Don’t you kinda miss when people just wrote about whatever, and there didn’t need to be a nice tidy ending?