I was so pissed off I wanted to yank the roses off their stems and squash them. But I didn’t just want them squashed; I wanted their very essence obliterated. I thought about mashing them between my palms and then smearing the pulp across the pavement with my heel until they became an indeterminate streak among the gum splotches and the pigeon shit.
I watched a pigeon take a shit on my train platform just yesterday. It offended me far less than the roses’ sickening loveliness did. Jesus, roses can be really fucking irritating sometimes. On my worst days, I would prefer to observe the dirty, sloppy squirt from a creature that I can only assume is self-aware of its own irrevocable squalidness, than to observe a beautiful rose basking in its own delicate perfume.
Pigeons smell more like ham sandwiches than perfume. They are covered in billions of germs and their feathers aren’t particularly impressive, as the petals of a rose are. Humans watch them flock near park benches and on platforms. Occasionally we may toss out some crumbs to a gathering flock, an act that may or may not be motivated by a dim sense of pity. Like throwing change into the cup of a beggar. And yet, pigeons seem to maintain an amiable temperament, despite our quiet judgment. They look out from beady eyes with friendly, albeit dumb curiosity. Their idiotic head bobs only add to their quasi-retarded charm.
On carefree days I give thanks to the beautiful roses, which sweeten the breeze. But on my worst days, I give special thanks to the pigeons, who offer cooing approval to my misery.