Post-traumatic Pigeon Disorder.

Sitting here, sick as a Republican at a poorhouse, watching the 3rd season of ReGenesis (finally), bronchitic, languishing in this hotel room in Arlington, Virginia, working on 002 of Strangeworld, and I hear skittering upstairs, in the walls. 

In Inwood, this means any number of things, but me? I've been conditioned by the endless warring of rabid bastard pigeons on my windowsill to believe that it's the frantic mating of winged rats. My remedy is throwing a shoe at the window, hoping it doesn't break. 

Here in Arlington, Vagina, there are no pigeons. It's the skittering of fuckhead tourists. 

The Pigeons have won.