Happy Birthday Greg!

It was Greg's birthday, but there was no time for celebration. He was a determined man. Dead-set on becoming an employed member of society. Not necessarily effective... Simply employed was enough. After many attempts, the odds seemed exponentially stacked against him. All the birds hated him and he didn't know why. Still, he was determined to fulfill his life purpose.

He was fueled by this nagging tension that stemmed from living in his mother's basement for years. Sometimes it was perceived as an uncomfortable silence. Other times, it felt more like the existential threat of homelessness and crippling dependency. Greg didn't pay any attention to that kind of negativity though. He had an interview to prepare for.

Much of his time was spent brushing his hair and ruminating about explanations regarding his life-long employment gap. He needed just one valid excuse that seemed realistic. Nobody would believe the real story...

Greg had only one item on his bucket list... To land a job without any nefarious birds leaving presents on his head in the process. They were very strategic in their assault. Perfect timing... He was always running five minutes late, literally. At least one assailant would wait outside his destination with something special, just for him. Spot on aim every time... Greg would still go through with the interview, hoping no one would notice. There was no turning back.

This all began once he turned 18. For superstitious reasons, he'd only hunt on his birthday after spending all year preparing for the big event. He failed 24 times so far. Regardless, the ritual remained.

Something about the number 42 seemed very significant. Greg was more devoted than ever to break this bad luck spell of regretfully humiliating interviews. Most of which actually weren't his fault... He would try his best every time. Clean shave, fancy suit, tie, belt, dress shoes, and an updated resume. It listed all his assigned chores and his mother as a reference. He had everything he needed. Most importantly, VERY well-brushed hair. Unfortunately, it would only last until he stepped outside.

He looked like a very well-kept mess and pulled it off in a way that was almost unnoticeable. The type you'd say "hi" to in passing, hoping for no extra details. It also seemed like his belt was holding something back that desperately wanted to be released. Not a gut... but a more feral, unconscious, kind of manifestation that could only be held back for so long... There was no time or money for psychoanalysis. Greg was on a mission. He was more concerned about the birds.

At this point, he was thoroughly convinced they were conspiring against him and had every right to believe so. As he slowly approached his destination, Greg carefully balanced confidence and cautiousness in a quite artistic, yet very disruptive way. An innocent bystander could easily notice Greg's paranoia by observing each step he made. They were more like lunges, leaps, somersaults, and some pretty awful cartwheels. Avoiding the bird's potential onslaught by any means. It was the exact type of inept behavior a child might imitate after watching Pink Panther. He'd often point up and yell things like "Look out!" "Incoming!" or the more rare, "You again!?" It really threw people off. He was too busy calculating his every move to notice though.

Through all the attempts over the years something became very apparent to the birds. The more Greg tried to dodge their attacks, the more accurate they became. By this point in their lives however, they'd had their laughs. Many were getting old and raising grandchildren. Most had retired. Some even qualified for social security. They collectively agreed to withdraw and ceased fire.

There's something to be said about repetitive behavior and consequently, repetitive results... Greg was a simple man. He didn't need the scientific method, self-awareness, or even an umbrella. He was committed to perfecting his craft. In a hypothetical world where birds might actually be aiming at humans, he'd have the most experience.

In the real world though, he needed a very different type of experience. The kind that determines an individual's worth by ensuring the emotional security of shareholders via consistent, reliable, and effective employment. This is exactly what Greg did not have. Although, he did have a clean head of wind-worn hair and a slightly dusty suit. He made it to his interview unscathed, despite the incalculable odds.

After a series of very unusual and unfortunately recurring incidents, the manager was ecstatic to see an applicant who'd remembered their pants. Luckily, Greg's confidence and optimism overpowered any possible sign of delusion during the interview. No need for a resume or references. The manager had a very intuitive feeling that this was the one. Greg was hired.

We all have that "thing" that fills our souls when caught up in the "doing" of it. But that internal sense of completion... That very divine-like feeling of fulfillment... Is much more rare...

Greg did the "thing." He was entranced into a state of perpetual bliss and began to walk outside with no worry of the birds.

Unbeknownst to him, a wild office party instantaneously broke out in the building. It had aggressively pushed it's way up to the rooftop several stories above without any sense of proportion to time as we know it. In an attempt to be a good influence, it became a manifestation of something delightfully chaotic. Everything was trying to fly. Cups, liquids, pants, a cake...

As Greg walked outside the building, he was still suffering from a mild case of transcendental enlightenment. A pair of supposedly punch-soaked pants landed gracefully beside him. An omen, he thought, as his gaze mindfully shifted up towards the heavens.

He saw something circular, dark, and possibly decadent falling towards him. This new sense of inquisitive curiosity took over his being.

"Is this it?" thought Greg

It was getting bigger. His curiosity and courage merged together.

Existential fear was the illusion he'd finally overcome. There was no going back.

"So be it" he said.

Greg felt at one with all things. Even the birds.

Pure love radiated from his being for about two seconds.

He whispered his last words: "Cake...?"

What was now most definitely a gourmet double-decker chocolate cake had gently made it's way onto Greg's face from several stories above.

In a mere fraction of an imperceptible amount of time, he read the words "Happy Birthday" just before impact.

He was engulfed in an illuminating white light.

He became light itself and left his body behind forever.

The birds were proud.

Happy Birthday Greg!