famished ovenbird A pelican will put anything in its mouth to see if it fits, to gauge the possibility of swallowing it whole. The internet is rife with pictures of pelicans stretching their voluminous beaks around the most unlikely things: a human head, a bicycle seat, a bear cub, a capybara, a giraffe. They have absolutely no sense of their size relative to other things. They approach every object they encounter with the same question: “can I eat you?” It’s admirable, really. How many of us have sat politely, pursing our lips, saying “no thank you, I’ve had enough,” rejecting dessert, when we’ve barely sated our rumbling hunger? Pelicans have no such social conditioning. They will eat literally anything and ask for seconds. They will eat a phone if the metallic flash of its luxe exterior reminds it of a fish. They will scoop up shoes and chihuahuas indiscriminately. They are all greed and no refinement. Once I swallowed a penny. No one can really say why. I was no older than five. The cold copper felt so good on my tongue, its tang was electric. I was busy rolling the smooth surprise of it around in my mouth when I let it slip down my throat. It scraped my throat raw going down, but I had no regrets. When did I lose that stark delight in the world? The impulse to eat, and eat, without a single scrap of shame? 260822 what's it to you? who go blather from