Spring has sprung and blessed us with added daylight hours, baby animals, and poisonous plant semen also known as pollen choking our lungs and wetting our eyes with stinging barbs. Like many well-to-do ladies, you may be searching for the perfect springtime centerpiece for your kitchen table. One that screams “rebirth” and “I have disposable income!” Well, how about you just take a long walk off a short pier, bitch. Because I’m not doing that shit, and that’s a promise.
To some, seasonal changes invite changes of the self. It’s only natural; after all, leaves are blooming on a tree that was previously terrifying like an old witch’s bony fingers, so why shouldn’t you take a spin class and have a glass of wine with lunch? Find a new partner? Redecorate your already excessively furnished home? Seems to me like you’re justifying things you were already going to do. But I’m not an expert on human psychology. No, the only thing I know about is bats. They get into my attic every year. I wouldn’t mind if they just stayed put up there, but no. They just gotta swoop at me when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I’m telling you, getting “the perfect centerpiece” isn’t gonna fix your life. It certainly won’t keep the bats out of my snack drawer. I find loose oatmeal everywhere now. All over the floor, leading up the attic. Bats aren’t supposed to eat oatmeal. They eat bugs and shit. I don’t know.
Do you know how many times I have had to get rabies shots? Twice. That’s too many times for someone who is not a veterinarian or some other kind of wildlife specialist. But sure. Keep getting your little vases from Michael’s and your pussywillow and your hyacinth from the flower market. Shouldn’t it be called flowers market? There’s more than one flower, dipshit. Oh, God. nobody even listens to me. I’ve officially turned into my great aunt Patty. And I’m not saying she was great like she was good, I’m saying she was old as shit. Soon I’ll be watching my grand nephew at the little league games, face planting into a thermos of Italian wedding soup and aspirating on aromatic herbs and spices because someone forgot to watch me and I die. That’s how Patty went. God bless her rotten soul. Getting old sucks. So anyway, if you’re so hell bent on this damn centerpiece, why don’t you quit talking about it and just go do it? If you want something, you have to act. No use just moaning about it. That’s something Patty taught me. Until she died in the soup, obviously. If I’m being realistic, the bats will probably kill me before the soup ever gets the chance. Anyway, if you get the springtime centerpiece, let me know what you land on. I gotta admit, I’m curious now. Alright, I gotta go pick up some more oatmeal. For the bats. You know.
