In the United States, all swallows are classified as migratory insectivorous birds under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. Swallows are also protected by state regulations. It is illegal for any person to take, possess, transport, sell, or purchase swallows or their parts, such as feathers, nets, or eggs, without a permit. As a result, certain activities affecting swallows are subject to legal restrictions, such as removing nests, capture and release or destroying the birds.
I am not a competitive person. Usually.
This was before I discovered that my house was being invaded by mud swallows. These nasty, diseased "things" have put mud all along the side of my house and it is now a race against time for me to hose the mud off before the bastards make nests and lay eggs. The above cited law prohibits me from destroying their residences and grants these little birdies amnesty to just move their entitled asses right on in. Furthermore, the vast quantity of these feathered fuckers flying over MY house makes me really question the viability of the term protected species.
All afternoon I have pondered my rage against these creatures as I pointed the nozzle at what was my pretty house, blasted the invaders with a steady stream of water and then experienced a state of orgasmic euphoria as chunks of mud washed to the ground. It was during my last eviction attempt that I suddenly realized why I was so mad. Clearly, I was being taken advantage of.
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For those of you who have known me for awhile, I used to be really nice. Yes me, Erin Moroni, was exceptionally, pathetically and exhaustingly nice. I would constantly do favors for people that treated me like shit. I would apologize for breathing. My house was spotless. I never displayed unpleasant emotions. My children wore matching clothing. I would put on make-up when I had the flu. I did not fart for the first 28 years of my life. I watched hyper un-medicated children for ungrateful humans. Anxiety was my constant companion. And my most harrowing personality quirk: I could not stand, stand, stand to have anybody mad at me. And then it happened...
I.WENT.TO.THERAPY.
And oddly, I do not feel this way anymore. I am still genuinely a nice person but I am perfectly okay with feeling anger. I am also okay with you being mad at me. Truthfully, I have never felt happier, healthier or more real. And at times, if the situation deems worthy of my attention, I will fight back. Ironically, the stucco covering my home just happens to fall into the category of things I will come to blows for.
So let it be known little swallows (btw your name is totally gross) I am officially waging a declaration of war on you and trust me fuckers, I am in it to win it. So I am going to go spray you one last time, write a “nice” letter to our state senator about his bullshit law and then I am going to go to bed with a clear conscious. See you in the morning bitches. XO
I am a writer, parent, and generally loose in the world. Yes, I meant what I said. Whatever. I handled it.
