shit's messed up.

Thursday I picked up dog shit from the sidewalk voluntarily. Two hours later, with endless pavement around me to hit, a bird with a wonderful sense of humor decided my arm was a more suitable place for his feces. While I don’t blame the pigeon for fulfilling his own prophecy, lines of communication were crossed somewhere in between the asking for shit and receiving it without my consent. You’re not supposed to let shit in. It comes out of you for a very specific reason that is both medically pertinent and in which necessitated a colon even long before the days of list making and general laziness in sentence formation. But listen: it’s no coincidence that expelling shit away from the body is the natural order. The second you have no pressing incentive to be in contact with shit yet choose to anyway, you’re opening a can of worms…figuratively, yet potentially otherwise. And still. Down I knelt with a scented baggie, and gingerly scooped the steaming pile into my hand. In that moment the universe took note that this woman will take shit without a complaint. Hell, she will do it without asking. Cue pigeon. My first inclination is to show the universe a bird of my own, but let’s take a moment and examine. It’s my own damn fault for picking it up in the first place. So next time when that pigeon comes in the form of a judgmental friend or an overly demanding boss, I won’t just yell, “fuck, that’s gross!” I’ll set things right with the universe again and throw a stick at them.