It's Official...

...either something significant happened today, or I need to have myself committed. Or both. 

While riding my bike this afternoon, I was deep in thought ("pensive", if you will) about a lot of things: School, work, television, Vogue, food, paint, politics, toothpicks, cats, Truman Capote, abortions, deodorant, potholes, trees, Manhattan, Carrie Bradshaw, marriage, Dovima, Grey's Anatomy, fish, getting my cigarette lit, Short Fiction for Retards, South Pacific, Vivienne Westwood, sex and, of course, my future; mainly, my hopes of becoming something more than a little gay boy on Long Island by making some kind of impact or contribution to the world on a large scale. (Dayum, that's a long sentence). And, just like that, a feather fell down right in front of my face. After accidently inhaling it, stopping my bike short, burning my finger and falling forward, I spit it out and remembered that, last week, I had decided that, if it were ever necessary, my insignia would be a feather. And that was a little scary.   

 

Now, birds fly. A lot. In the sky. Above our heads. And they molt. Logic would say there's nothing unusual about this occurrence and, in reality, there isn't. But it was striking that, in my whole mini chain-reaction of thoughts that, the split-second I was thinking about my career the symbol of said career would drop in front of my face and down my throat. I mean, haven't had some conversion where I'll now run into the nearest church and start praying and flogging myself, nor do I even think I'll remember this damn feather next week, but it's just another one of those things.

Goddamn universe.