I and “I” I’ve always loved the taste of nuts. Peanuts, Brazil nuts (I called them something else in my youth, a racially abhorrent reference to podiatric extremities, which I view as a possible karmic component to my present condition), macadamia, and especially cashews. Nuts make me think of Christmas, of going to the huge Sears store on Lake Street in Minneapolis, of the snow crunching under my rubber boots, of my parents in a good mood, of presents. The hot light warming the bins of nuts was the polar opposite of the polar conditions outside. I would go from minus ten degrees below zero to finger-singeing heat (“What were you thinking!?!”) in the space of twenty-seven ten-year-old boy steps. The nuts were always salted. As these memories move around my brain, I can almost feel my lips moisten with drool. Almost. Because I don’t seem to have lips anymore. When I rub my tongue along the ridge where my lips should be, all I feel is a hard, sharp surface. A moment ago I turned my head and looked into a mirror hanging next to me and made an interesting discovery: it seems I am now a bird. Not just any bird, mind you, but an African Grey Parrot. And not just any African Grey Parrot, but one that “I” raised from infancy. I am now “my” own pet. Upon further review, I figure if I have to be a bird, being a Grey is a good thing. Very clever they are. Intelligent and popular. I should be thankful that whatever force it was that turned me into a bird wasn’t a prick (or bitch. "I"’ve never been sure about the gender of cosmic forces), and made me into a cockroach. That would make my tale one already told, and of little interest to you, the reader. Oh, and I’m a girl bird, even though “I” never sexed me. “I” took it as gospel that when the bird is attracted to the human male, it’s a female. So now I’m not only a different species, I’m a different gender. I shut my eyes and try to feel my sexuality. I don’t have hands any more, so I will have to rely on...whatever it is that one feels emotionally or spiritually about ones sexuality. Nothing. I can’t escape the images of nuts and melon and corn. It makes sense, I suppose. As a bird, who up to this point has had very little formal education and whose level of socialization rarely went beyond “NO! No bite! Bad Pipey! No bite!”, I would be concerned first and foremost with the simple things: food, shelter, and predators. TIVO, cheese, and tequila will be on the backburner for a time, I imagine. For now I will content myself to just be a bird. No sense in getting bothered. I am a bird. And why is it I’m so calm? Usually when “I’m” presented with a sudden change, I get all panicky and dizzy. Piper would fluff up her feathers and hunch over like a vulture if something was amiss. I close my eyes again to see how I feel about this situation. Mmmmm! Fresh corn. That all I can get in my minds eye. Ah well. I wonder if “I” fed me this morning. I was out in the living room when “I” was scurrying about, doing the morning rituals. I have a faint memory of looking out the window at the “outside birds”, as “I” call them. Maybe “I” fed me while I was distracted. I walk...move sideways, actually, towards the metal food dish. Score! Fresh corn, AND banana, AND melon! I turn towards the opposite side of the roomy, large green cage (“I” am so good to me. What a lucky bird I am) and see a fresh mound of crunchies in the tray opposite. I use beak and claw to maneuver my way over. “I’ve” seen me do this countless times, so the learning curve is minimal. The tray smells like...I don’t know...like...jungle, I guess. I grab a peanut with my toes, and begin the cracking process. This isn’t as difficult as I thought. I... I wonder where “I” am? As I methodically crack thorough the shell on my way to the delicious nut, I look around the room. Nothing. “I’m” nowhere. I stop eating for a moment. I listen. Nope, nothing. With renewed focus I return to the nut. I hear a noise come from the bedroom. A crashing and flailing about. Next comes a screech. Then more crashing. “I” come bursting through the doorway with a look on “my” face worthy of an End Times Prophet. “I” smash into to the bookshelf, pulling down dozens of “my” wife’s meticulously cataloged books, then stop. “I” look around, for what I’ll never know. I say “Michael? Piper?” “I” look in my direction, but I can see my attempt to calm “me” isn’t working. “I” let out one long banshee/wolf/eagle scream and fall more than walk towards the living room. I hear more crashing and smashing and screeching and... I still have the peanut in my talon. First things first. When my wife gets home, ironically from the PetSmart with a load of “birdy treats that birdies love to eats”, she’ll have to deal with “my” conversion. For me, it’s Christmas.