By a 6-year-old

 

Hi, pigeons. Birdies. Bony, feathered worms of the sky. I have something to tell you: I am your God now.

 

I control you. When I run towards you in my light-up velcro Sketchers, you will fly up in the air in terror and land a few feet away. When I yell at you, you will fly up in the air in terror and land a few feet away. When I throw French fries at you, you will fly up in the air in terror and land a few feet away. When anything enters a three-foot radius of you, you will fly up in the air in terror and land a few feet away.

 

You might ask, “What does a six-year-old know about being God of birds?” Good question. For your information, I once ate an entire package of bird seed. Mommy had to call poison control.

 

From now on, you guys all have to live under Mommy and Daddy’s roof like I, your God, does. We live by the rules there. Rule one: 8 p.m. bedtime. Rule two: No minecraft on weekdays. Rule three: Boys aren’t supposed to cry when Tommy O’Brian makes fun of you for peeing your pants on the first day of preschool.

 

Capeesh? Capeesh.

 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important God things to do. Like drinking Juicy Juice.