A Pigeon Is Ruining My Life

Like most humans with a mental illness, I have trouble sleeping. Ironically, while depression may make one feel tired all the time, it often does not even warrant the sweet relief of sleep. You know when you’re very tired on the subway after a long day, and you’re standing, and from across the train a seat opens up, but walking to it seems like a whole ordeal and you’re only one stop away anyway, so you decide to just keep standing? Yeah, it’s kind of like that, only for hours and your stop never comes. Haha! 

My inability to sleep is only made worse by the fact that I am literally always refreshing my phone in the hopes of the Instagram notification or email that will contain the news I know will change my life and eradicate all my problems. “HBO has just commented on your photo: love this! DM us because we want to produce your writing.” The constant stimulus is confusing for my little lizard brain, and so when it comes time for bed, my LB is all “What’s with this break in stimulus? What’s a guy gotta do to get some stimulus around here? Make his own? I’ll try! Let’s start with greatest fears.” 

All that being said, I take threats to my sleep—early appointments, construction, my “roommate being locked out”—very seriously. Enter Earl.

I just moved, which is exciting in a “I Own Nothing” kind of way, and part of what I inherited from the previous tenant is a windowsill home to an ungracious, self-serving, piece-of-shit coward bird named Earl. Like most of my enemies, I did not name him (parents usually get that done for me), but he is in fact Earl and he is in fact ruining my life.

Earl’s first arrival was met with befuddlement and, I’ll admit, some amusement. “Look at this pigeon all cozy on my windowsill! I hope he doesn’t make noise during the wee hours of the night as I am clinging onto sleep like a newborn fawn. Anyway, time to refresh my Instagram.” I think how we first met was something like that. Then, I began to see Earl more and more. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. I even brought Earl up to my roommate. “There’s a pigeon that’s like always on my windowsill,” I said. “Oh him?” she chirped, “that’s just Earl!”

Just. Earl.

Then, one morning, when sleep was being particularly elusive, Earl was pigeon-ing on my A/C and looked just a little too comfortable. So what did I do? I slammed my hand on the window to scare him away.

Now before you’re all “Jose, people who like to hurt animals for fun are often early serial killers” I’d argue that pigeons are just barely animals, and I’ll have you know my therapist and I have had extensive conversations as to whether or not I’m a sociopath and we’ve come up with the decision “probably not.”

My boyfriend was somewhat…stunned by my outburst, to which I replied, crawling back into bed “if I can’t have peace, nobody can.”

And that is when the war began. 

I think Earl took this gesture as a challenge, and has now made it his mission to torture me and my very thin grasp on rest. Turns out, Earl is a vocalist. Every morning, around 6am, the coo-ing begins.

Coooooooo. Good morning, loser.

Coo! Coo! Your haircut looks dumb.

Coooo~ Your mind is a prison.

Coo! Coo! Coo! I live here now, bitch.

Some mornings, I swear to God, I hear him laugh.

His other mind-games are particularly more manipulative. Along with the Earl problem, my apartment—ugh—has a mouse, which is ruining my life in a different way. If Earl is a frenzy of bright, large flames, the mouse is a slow burn—a gas leak, carbon monoxide poisoning, a boyfriend slowly falling out of love with you as your mental health deteriorates due to lack of sleep. Something insidious like that. I will be taking no further questions at this time about the mouse.

All that being said, I am somewhat hypersensitive to mouse-like movements or figures. Once, on the way to the bathroom, I screamed at what I believed to be a mouse resting on the kitchen counter. It turned out to be a malnourished avocado. I believe Earl knows this—perhaps he and the mouse are in cahoots—and has taken to tap dancing on my A/C in twilight, when my mind is vulnerable enough to believe there is a mouse in my walls. It's soft, like a mover in an Anything Goes callback, but noticeable no less.

I discovered this just this morning as I was listening intently, and not crazily, to movement by my window. I slammed my window once more, where Earl normally reveals himself, and nothing. This only further confirmed it was a mouse. As the movements grew larger, and I woke up more, I realized the sound was certainly coming from outside. I took a closer look at my windowsill, and there was his blood orange eye staring back at me, unfazed. It was Earl making the sounds.

Where will he turn next? He has my health…what more could satisfy him? My career? My relationships? I have done my pigeon windowsill research, and know I am not alone. One harrowing review for bird spikes on Amazon tickled me, and I thought I’d share.

“Birds mocking me” is the title, and body, of this review. Here is the photo they provide:

I am afraid. I am poorly rested. I am a man, subdued. Earl, if you are reading this: you have won.