I like birds. I always have. While I’m not a bird watcher, per se, I do like to watch birds. By that, of course, I mean I don’t need to know the Latin names of different birds, I don’t need binoculars, I am not obsessed with sighting a certain bird before I die. No, I just like to look at them outside, hopping around on their little bird legs, making the occasional chirping sound, and doing whatever it is that birds do each day.

Now, it is 5:30 on Sunday morning. I am at Beth’s, trying to sleep in her office chair, the balcony door is open because, as an overweight person, I can’t sleep if I’m too hot, and, for the last hour, I have been listening to a damned bird symphony.

I did fall asleep for about 20 minutes and just woke up, scared to death because I heard this horrid racket. I almost fell out of the chair trying to figure out what the noise was.

And then I realized I couldn’t blame the birds this time. No, the godawful noise was me. Snoring. I have a feeling this is going to be a very long day.