B and T's Excellent Adventure: The Most Terrifying Thing That Has Ever Happened to Me

After much counseling with my unlicensed psychologist (for a small fee Bryan learned the science of psychology from a sage in Mexico. Apparently the degree doesn't transfer to the U.S. as well as we would have hoped), I have decided to share THE MOST TERRIFYING EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE.

This story officially supersedes all other former terrifying experiences, including, but not limited to: saying, "Bloody Mary," in the bathroom in third grade, seeing Bryan in drag, and almost getting hit by a bus with Matt Loper on our way to watch Kal Ho Naa Ho.

Last Sunday I was walking to church in the early hours of the morning. The city was still and the rays of the rising sun glinted off the dew-speckled emerald grass. But all was not well. Trouble was stirring.

From the bowels of the underworld emerged a black beast as filthy as sin. Spreading it's begrimed wings, it rose into the air like smoke from the inferno. Passing not but a few feet from my head it let out a screech that could cause a bowl of Lucky Charms to burst into tears.

A raven, or it's scientific name ravenius humongous evilus willprobablykillus. The raven is not a mere bird. It is a freak experiment created in the laboratories of Hell through a vile combination of feathers, black, talons, and evil. It is rumored that eyes of the raven are plucked from the very souls of the damned. The raven is the token symbol of death. The harbinger of doom and despair. The symbolic embodiment of malice.

The beast swooped over my head and landed on a low-hanging branch nearby. Glaring at me with blatant contempt, it continued it's cacophonous caw. Once I had passed it made another lunge for my head. I ducked and quickened my pace. The persistant poltergeist perched on a pole ahead of me. Then like an arrow from the quiver of Beelzebub himself, another raven shot toward me, adding his own caterwauling to the dissonance of the first. Desperately I tried swatting at it, but my attempts to deflect their attacks were as futile as trying to keep Bryan from cookie dough.

At that point my only thought was Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." I was sure to die. This was an omen. I started to run, and through my tears begged for deliverance, confessing every sin since childhood, even the ones I hadn't actually committed (like etching my sister's name into our leather couch and changing my mom's texting shortcut from "thx" to "that's what she said"). I wished that I could disappear, be banished to oblivion, or magically be transformed into a scarecrow. Anything to be rid of those birds!

(Side note: If it weren't such a horrific experience, I think I would like to have been a person watching from a nearby apartment. )

Through some miracle I finally reached the outer doors of the church building. I dashed in, slammed the doors, and screamed, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" I fully expected the monsters to come smashing through the windows, but they didn't. A friend told me later that ravens have the ability to remember faces and hold grudges. I'm sure they are just down there in birdhell scheming and plotting to destroy me when I am out of reach of a dedicated building.

For the last week I have been on edge. I wonder if the other birds in the avian community are in on the conspiracy. Images of ravens flash like apparitions through my tortured consciousness and infest my sleep, making nightmares of even the most restful slumber.

When I first felt emotionally secure enough to recount the experience, I referred to the squawking spawn of Satan as "crows." However, I was informed that they were probably ravens, since ravens are notably larger than crows. Still, I have my doubts that they were even ravens. By their size and capacity to commit evil, I would say that they were pterodactyls, or probably the fellbeasts that the Nazgul ride in Lord of the Rings. (If they were Nazgul steeds, at least it would make sense why they attacked me; I do have hobbit-like features).