This is my Benjamin Button.  If I kept drinking, doing drugs and somehow managed to make it to 63, I would be this guy.  In fact, I think I own that outfit.  Now, my friend might not of died that night, but he certainly makes “Dead Bird Tuesdays” with flying colors.  


It was super awkward getting this picture.  On one hand, I was genuinely worried that somebody got tired of playing “Weekend At Bernies” with this sack of withering alcoholic flesh, and left their uncle to rot away in the streets of the O-town.  But no.  He was breathing with his eyes half mast.  I tried to wake him up and rake in some good samaritan merit, to no avail.  This dude had obviously made a bet he could overdose on Thunderbird. And won. 


There was no waking my elder counterpart.  So instead of grabbing a cop, asking for help and inadvertently snitching on him (aka possibly saving his life), I decided to take his picture, post it on the internet and once again be reminded through the actions of others why I don’t drink.  Maybe I should have told someone.  He just seemed so peaceful and good at breathing. Oly goes hard either way you look at it, and sometimes you want to just leave Mothernature alone.  I hope he’s ok.  


This guy on the other hand is not ok.  He’s dead.  And he died hella hard.  I’m not sure why I take pictures of dead birds.  I’m not really that dude.  But apparently, there is something about these flying small people who aren’t really people that intrigue me.  There are so many unanswered questions.  How’d they die?  Who cleans up these dead birds off the street?  Dogs don’t eat them.  Why?  Did they fail at flying and and just bite it really tough?  Are there craisins in their stomachs?  Do birds that are alive laugh at their deceased peers and think “should have flapped harder.”  Who knows.