Guess what time it is, kids? That's right, it's letter time. This time, it's someone we all know and love. Lucy Fur.



Dear Lucy~
Shut. Up. Why would you think that we're getting out of bed at 4:26 in the morning? In the entire span of our nearly decade long relationship, exactly how many times have you and I gotten out of bed at 4:26 in the morning? What? That time when I worked for Starbucks, you say? Shut up! Also, please note that I am fully aware of your rather astute sense of smell. But to have to listen to you going, " SNIIIIIIIIFFsniffsniffsniffsniffsniff *wall scratch wall scratch* SNIIIIIIIIIIIFFa-sniffsniff" incessantly, most especially in those moments just after I have dozed off, is going to drive me even further into the abyss of "batshit insane". There is no monster in the wall. There is no ghost in the wall. There is nothing in the wall that would merit the attention you give that particular corner of the bedroom. I need sleep. I don't get to hang out on the futon for 16 hours a day, napping away my worries. I am out earning a living, in order to keep you in the manner to which you have grown accustomed. If I can't sleep, I can't work. If I can't work, you can't eat. And we all know what happens when you perceive your dinner to be merely minutes off schedule. God forbid you should have to go, say, a whole day without food. The pawing of the bowl and angry whimpering/gurgling/cooing noises would be deafening. So, to wit: we have a symbiotic relationship. You need me, as I need you. You fill a void in my heart, and you don't ever judge me. Even when I get a little misty-eyed at movies like, say, Titanic. I provide you with shelter, food and above all, love. If you wish our relationship to continue unabated, I'd suggest that you kindly Shut. Up.

Yours,
Mom (aka, that lump in the bed that really, really just wants seven uninterrupted hours of sleep)