Hey. Hey. HEY!
Oh good. You’re up. Do I have your attention? Fucking good.
It is I, the very small Finch with a voice ten times my size, who has built a home in the crumbling facade of your under-maintained walk-up. I am King of these lands of brick and removed mortar and I am here, upon this windowsill podium, raising my voice with (and sometimes before) the sun to say, “IT IS SPRING, BITCHES!”
I know that waking from your slumber, you may be confused and wondering, “Is it not still Winter?” (It’s not, it’s Spring, you idiot). Or, “Is it summer yet?” (definitely not Summer— it’s Spring, dipshit). Or perhaps you slept so deeply and are so disoriented that you feel the crisp tug of the air and think, “It must be Fall.” Which is why I, small and fierce with an inexhaustible chirp, am here to tell you that no, bitch. It is Spring.
Why am I so intent on announcing the advent of Spring? Because Spring is for fucking, moron. And I am a tiny bird with a piercing love song, who, unlike you, hasn’t given up on finding someone to spend the night ruffling some feathers with. Spring means I am here to do two things: mark my territory and FUCK. And you know what, assholes? Everyone already knows this windowsill is mine so let’s get down to business. And by business I mean fucking. In case that wasn’t clear.
You may be wondering, “How is that tiny fucking bird so fucking loud and so fucking early every goddamn morning?” And honestly, I’m glad you asked because it’s called a dawn chorus, motherfucker, and mine rivals Tchaikovsky, unlike that sad sack bullshit that’s always coming from your window. It’s no wonder you’re alone in the same rocky-road-stained sweatpants every day when trash like that is repelling the ladies at all hours of the afternoon. That emo shit is WINTER MUSIC. And I think we covered this, but is it Winter? IS IT? No, asshat, it’s Spring.
There may be moments, nearing 5:30 AM that you may think I have finished my proclamations. You may consider going back to sleep for a few more minutes before beginning your day, but at 5:33 AM, hold onto your stupid nightcap, fuckface, because I just needed a quick sip of water and an adorable dustbath to fluff these feathers before I get right back to declaring with a chirp that will ring in your ears for hours. That it. Is. Still. SPRING. And Spring is not for sleeping, shitbag. Spring is for fucking.
There were a lot of things you were ready for when you chose a city life: sirens at all hours, hearing your neighbor flush their toilet through the wall, the rhythmic sound of bed springs squeaking above you while you spend another night alone. But you were not prepared for me, in all my feathery, tiny, bold-as-fuck glory. The loudest fucking Finch with the cutest fucking perch. Here to tell your sleep-deprived ass: It’s Spring, bitches. And I fuck way more than you do.