Wednesday, December 28, 2011

On Geese


I don’t like geese. 

Scratch that, I hate geese.

Now that might seem entirely random, but I figured I’d share regardless. They’re not very nice creatures, in my humble opinion, and I’m pretty sure that most of my psychological traumas have risen from the fowl creatures (oh yes, you read correctly, I went there). Why do I have such a burning hatred against geese? (Though the question should be why I feel the need to discuss this hatred with you, oh avid reader.) Well, to put it simply, because they scarred me at a very young age. Not just emotionally (or psychologically, as I’ve mentioned before) but also physically. And they did not even have the decency to provide me with any cool powers to make up for it.

Peter Parker got spider powers, Harry Potter got the ability to speak to snakes, all I got was a scar. Not even a badass one that I could claim was inflicted by some marauding pirates that I fought off with my hands tied behind my back as I wielded a sword with my teeth, but one that can only really be seen if I scrunch up my face >.< (like that) and point it out.

There’s also the story of how I got the scar. It’s a story I’ve written out man times, for my autobiography (assignment in Middle School, because twelve year olds have an abundance of life experience that just needed to be put down on paper …I’m pretty sure I had three ‘chapters’ dedicated to Buffy and Angel and Vampires…called that section ‘Buffynatic and Vampire Mania,’ I thought I was being clever, punny even. Clearly some things don’t change), for non-fiction assignments in creative writing classes (junior year of college, we had to write about animals, me and geese go way back), for my psychiatrist (the voice in my head), but the reactions have always been disappointing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not looking for pity, just caution. I want people to be aware of the evil that geese embody, for them to tell their friends and siblings and children. I am simply trying to ensure that no one else undergoes the same agony, the same soul-deep pain that I feel to this day. Just like an acid trip, the memory of that incident can return at any time: while I’m playing video games, or driving my Lamborghini (in my mind), or simply just having a pleasant conversation with my friends. The images flash before my eyes: white feathers, sharp beak, rivers of red streaming down my face, the distinctly metallic tang of fresh blood. Most memories tend to fade after a long time; they take on a slightly aged hue, like old movies. Not the Goose Incident. That one is just as vivid 18 years later, HD and 3D and any other ‘D’ you can think of.

Yeah, it was that bad.

Now would probably be the time that you expect me to tell you this story. Rather, now would be the time that it would be expected that one tell the story that they had spent 500 words or so setting up. But I won’t do that to you, dear reader. I wouldn’t want you to have heart stopping nightmares so soon after Christmas, so close to the New Year. No, this tale is meant for a less festive time.

But do not fret! I will not leave you empty handed, but with words of caution: if you happen to encounter a goose on your journey, no matter how pathetic or injured or imploring it might look, do not approach it! Turn around, dear friend, and run. Run until you cannot hear the demonic hiss that will echo in the deepest recesses of your mind. Run until you cannot feel sharp wind that can only be generated by the beating of overly large wings against your neck.

Run. You’ll thank me one day.