‘Dear fucker, what’s up?

Yeah, it’s me—the messed-up, delusional, angry bird, Nectar.

Mom says I should get a journal to scribble down my wrathful thoughts instead of spit them all on her.

I figured it was a good idea. But now I wonder how long I would last before ditching you in the corner. I’ll take it slow, though. Today, I'll—

“Happy birthday!” mom shrieks from the door. As I’m seated cross-legged on the bed with the book set on one of my thighs, I nearly stab that thigh ...