A couple years ago I realized that hearing a bird made me happy. That probably seems dumb, but my cognition doesn't work like it should and so it can take me a super long time to arrive at perfectly obvious conclusions. Just as an example: it took me about twenty five years to figure out somebody had clearly come to my house with romantic intentions. A couple weeks ago I was kinda like, "Oh. She probably wasn't super interested in the Amiga." But I was super interested in the Amiga. Too interested? It's hard to say. Given the alternative, it's worth considering.

Birds can be a hobby, and when it is, it's the bare minimum elaboration "birding." It's a word made for and by people who have no time to name their hobby in a cool way, and the reason is obvious: there are birds to hear and look at, and the time to do it is right now. I am extending my awareness outward to contain these beasts, and there are some I have come to know. Pursuing this activity is dirt fucking cheap - all you need to be is weird enough to want to do it, which might create problems elsewhere in your life, but these fuckin' birds don't care. They love you like dad didn't. Or maybe they don't! Such ambiguities rest at the very core of the pastime.

So the strip is about the wicked and mercurial Gabriel talking shit about my rad, you know, fuckin'... excursions, but if you have spent any time at all on this website you know that my predilections are undefeated - you know that my interests bang, like a croquet ball in a dryer. And you also know that there is something about these interests that writhes and flexes in his mind until such time as he cannot help himself, taking my pure hobbies and basting them with hot depravity, taking them further than is wise or I daresay holy:

I’m already collecting these birds… https://t.co/3RFeJWj9et pic.twitter.com/QIaADoMwg0

— Gabe (@cwgabriel) April 24, 2023

I'll be over there later this week. I'm gonna check the search history.

(CW)TB out.