Every morning I’m startled by the sound of a very weak person trying to break in through my bathroom window. It’s a Western Bluebird (I think—I only minored in ornithology) determined to incrementally commit suicide by repeatedly flying into the glass. That’s one guess. Another is that it lost its eggs in the great nest fire of ’11, and is shell shockingly trying to reclaim them. How, you ask? Faithful readers will recall that I have a Western Bluebird—nest and all—tattooed just above my ass (click here to see it). This would explain why it only seems to bother me in the shower: I am a living effigy of its hollow existence.
TWTG says, “I don’t have sarcasm, I have snarkasm.”