I do not like butterflies. I do not find them graceful or beautiful. I do not appreciate them as tattoo art or as fashion or as aspects of interior design. My first formal dance I went to, my freshman year of high school, was held in the Pacific Science Center, in the exhibits surrounding the Butterfly Room. Where there are a lot of butterflies, flying around, landing on you, swooping through the air, big ones, little ones, in a humid room dripping with flowers. I walked through the butterfly room because it was novelty, and because everyone was doing it and because I was 14. I pretty much spent the entire time in there crouched to the ground or letting out only-audible-to-dogs-type-screams. I was trying to play it cool, but if you know me, then you know – that hardly ever works out.
The point of this story is: I don’t really like anything that flies. Birds are ok because they generally stay away from me, but when they seem like they’re going to dive bomb and/or begin swooping anywhere near my head, I run screaming like a little girl, flapping my arms about like an orangutan. And this is the explanation for this video (warning, obnoxious laugh ahead):