My whole life was defined on a day much like today many, many years ago.
I was five.
I was enjoying the sun and being out in public, hand and hand with my older sister skipping down our main street to try and keep up.
Nothing could go wrong.
Or could it.
I was hoping for a chance to hang out with the big kids, and maybe in a perfect world, score a vanilla soft ice cream cone.
And then it happened.
The skies above opened up. A pigeon about four stories higher than we were, obviously with designs to ruin my plan for a perfect day, aimed carefully and unloaded smack dab on the top of my head.
I was devastated - can you imagine the bawling a a little 60 pound neon blond kid with about 8 ounces of green pigeon poop dripping into his ears can do? I did it. My perfect day was gone.
The bright side is that since, nothing has really seemed all that terrible.
Last week, most assuredly a grown up who has survived many storms, I did another one of my quarterly iconoclastic posts, just to hopefully wake people up from their comfort.
And yesterday. Again. I don't know if it was the same dammed bird or not. Maybe it was a black helicopter.
But I got hit square on top.
Don't know if the bird got instructions from CPC loyalists.
Probably not - they don't shoot that accurately.
But I got hit. And I didn't feel a lot better about it than I did that day so many years ago.