Getting into my Blogger Account is like Breaking into Fort Knox

 Google wants every bit of information about you. They can't let you have your little diary unless it is attached to everything you are. And we are worried about TikTok?

All I wanted to do was sign in and talk about the dead bird!

Here it is!

There is nothing quite like the searing, personal rage of scooping a dead baby bird out of your fireplace, knowing full well that it suffered—and I did nothing. Why? Because I listened to a bunch of self-righteous, know-it-all online clowns who insisted, “Leave it! The parents will come back!” Oh really? Will they? Are they magic ghost parents? Did they have an express route through the chimney I wasn’t aware of? Or maybe they were just too busy being hypothetical to show the hell up.

I sat there, helpless, behind my fireplace door, listening to that baby bird chirp and scream for days—DAYS—until its tiny body gave out. And now, I’m the one who has to live with that sound burned into my brain, knowing that while it suffered, I stood there doing nothing because a gaggle of keyboard ornithologists decided to play God.

And you know what makes it worse? These smug do-nothings act like trying to save it would have been some unspeakable crime. “Oh, it’s too hard to care for a chimney swift. You’ll just make it worse!” Really? Worse than starving to death, cold and alone, in a dark fireplace while it screamed for help no one gave? Tell me, oh wise internet bird sages, how exactly trying to save it could have been worse than that.

But no. I trusted them. I believed them when they said, “The parents will feed it!” and “You’ll do more harm than good!” And now, I’m left scooping out its lifeless body, its tiny feathers sticking to my hand, knowing it could’ve been different if I’d just had the courage to ignore their bullshit.

You people sit on your high horses, spouting off about “letting nature take its course,” but let me tell you something: you don’t get to feel good about your advice when it ends in needless suffering. You weren’t here. You didn’t hear it chirping for its life. You didn’t have to pick up its broken little body. I did. And now I have to live with the fact that I listened to you instead of trusting my gut and trying to save it.

So here’s the deal: next time, I’m ignoring all of you. If it’s hard, fine. If it’s messy, fine. But at least I’ll know I did something. Because doing nothing, standing by while something suffers, and calling it “the right thing” is a lie I’ll never believe again.