I Want To Be A Duck
I used to have a job in Kirkland. I hated that job. I had to spend an hour on the bus each way to get there, and the job was boring and my boss was semi-evil. When I was on the bus, I could look out the window as we went over the 520 bridge over Lake Washington. In the lake was a huge flock of ducks. They were there every day.
As I gazed out the window, I realized that those ducks really have the sweet life. They can fly and go wherever they want. When they find someplace they like, they can land on a lake and swim all day, eating whatever it is that ducks eat. (I'm guessing it's something underwater, by the amount of time they spend diving and bobbing back up.)
Yes, most places have a duck hunting season, and ducks could get shot. But this is the brilliance of these city ducks. It's illegal to shoot them. And people like city ducks. They don't screech and crap all over everything like seagulls. They aren't fat little feathered rats like pigeons. They're well-liked and amusing.
Everytime I saw those ducks on Lake Washington, I wanted to be one of them. That's how I knew it was about time to quit that job. Fantasizing about becoming waterfowl is clearly a sign of nearly psychotic stress.
