The doctors call it ornithophobia, I call it the reaction to the pterodactyls swooping and calling over my head. The aves that to others look like small black specks in the sky to ignore are to me the evil B-52 bombers to avoid at all costs. As you can imagine, spring is the worst season for me with my aversion to the overhead rats that pollute our sky, seeing as its the season when there are the most of them in the water colored masterpiece floating above our heads. The creatures that look like a kindergarten art project made with papier-mâché, Elmer’s glue, and feathers muddy the treasure of our gorgeous heavens. Even the squawking sounds they make are a grinding in my skull. Knowing all of this you can probably imagine the churning of my stomach when I realized I had to leave my house to get milk for a recipe that was already half made. My trembling body stalls in front of the gateway to the hellscape outside the confines of my sanctuary. I cautiously slide over the tattered door sweep planting my feet on the other side. I hastily about faced to my door and fumbled to jam my keys into the deadbolt. Each step of the journey across the cracked pavement was an exercise of mental control. One, two, three. Imagine the rush of relief as I pass through the door of this temporary safe haven. I take my time meandering through the countless isles of commercialism, avoiding the pet food isle. After retrieving my required cow juice I prepare to do battle with my cowardice once again. As I run for home I wonder if my jitters will turn this milk into butter. After depositing the maybe butter in the fridge I collapse from exhaustion.