Good morning! It's 4:25am and the birds are singing aggressively. That's right, aggressively. Birds. The birds are SINGING and the sun is on the horizon. Mrs. G. isn't going to lie. Sometimes she hates birds with all their forced cheerfulness. She wants to scream at them to give it a rest. But then she remembers how they charmingly bookend her days and nights and she feels guilty like the Catholic she used to be. Catholicism. It's for the birds. Oh don't go there. Mrs. G. is earnestly kidding.
And the neighbors. Their suspicions would be confirmed if they heard her bawling out the birds.
Mrs. G. woke up too early because last night she tucked into the gin, and she hasn't tucked into the gin in many, many months. It's been many hours since her last drink but when she drinks, Mrs. G. wants to talk. She wants to talk about everything and Mr. G. takes it for as long as he can take it and then he goes to bed. Where are all of you when she needs you? Oh that's right, you're tucked in bed with clean cotton sheets and a fluffy pillow, sleeping. Mrs. G. is right behind you.
Things Mrs. G. considered writing about:
The one year she was a cheerleader because her school, Blessed Sacrament, put out an open call to every girl. All you had to do to join the team was buy the uniform and knee-hi socks. It was great!
That's all she can think of because she's sleep deprived. And scared of revealing stories like the one where she is wearing the underwear in her rotation that is two sizes too small. Underwear of hope and desperation she might call it if she were writing about it. Why yes. Today is laundry day.
That's all that she's got. She knows it's not much.
She was lying in bed last night wondering where all of you are from. You lurkers that is. Everyone actually. So where are you from? It only seems right and just to give up this information. Will you share it? Mrs. G. shared her underwear of hope and desperation. Give it up. Where are you from?