I’m a little disappointed that the Rapture didn’t come to pass. I don’t know about you, but I was looking forward to meeting the Big Jeez in the flesh. Or the spirit. Whatever. I have a lot of questions I’d like answered. Also a few demands.

(I’m confident that I would have been included in said Rapture because I did my time in parochial school and God knows that should count for something.)

(I’m really not that disappointed. A party with no gay people is not really a party. BO-RING.)

Anyway, spring has finally sprung here in Indianny, and with it has come about six million little birdies a-tweeting (not on miniature little iPads, although that would be much more to my liking) at four AM every morning.

Since I must sleep with the window open, this is very disconcerting. And since I sleep with a bevy of cats who must sit in the window and make bizarre choking noises at said birds, it’s a downright pain in the ass.

Even worse are the honking Canadian geese that flock to the farmer’s field located directly behind our backyard. Canada, take your fucking geese back before I start a war. Despite my rather rigid anti-gun stance, I’m about to buy a Winchester and start taking them out one by one.

Four AM, every single day, and please keep in mind that my headache has STILL not abated.

I am calling the neurologist this morning and demanding that he do something, anything. Shoot me up with drugs. Drill some holes in my skull. Whatever.

I can almost hear the response: “Jenny-fahr, I am sorry, I cannot fit you in until July.”

Bastard.

In other news, the J-Man has been grounded from all electronic devices for about two weeks. This is like torture for both of us; him because he doesn’t know what to do with his thumbs, and me because I have to hear a constant barrage of reasons why I am the meanest mother ever.

I know I’m the meanest mother ever. I studied extensively with Joan Crawford. I have a collection of both wooden spoons and leather belts. I lie awake at night contemplating how to best make his young life as miserable as possible. I occasionally poke him with sharp objects while he sleeps.

I feed him laxatives. I put nails inside of his shoes. I let the air out of his bicycle tires. I train the cats to attack him. I swear at him regularly. I whisper insults in his ear at the dinner table. I make him do his homework in the shed, in the dark, with the lawn mower. I mock him relentlessly.

All of this brings me great pleasure and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon, so he had better get used to it. I’ve told him this a hundred times, but he keeps squalling about ‘child abuse’ and ‘basic human rights’.

Blah, blah, blah.

Happy Tuesday. May your sweet little birdies sleep till noon.

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