to the church of Richy

I know that you love the brethren, and the sistren. I know that you love even the little children, and that ocassionally you take out the trash, and that your exploits in the studio are unmatched, indeed, you are the master of the recording studio.

Still, I have these things against you.

When you arise in the morning and you squeak the dresser drawers loudly and close the bathroom door so it makes a noise, I hold this against you. Indeed, although my anger is only for a moment and I might go back to sleep, except your other offenses.

For INDEED, you did turn on the overhead light and not one of the three small lamps. Not just in the room in which I sleep, but also in the living room where the oldest child lays on the couch until someone gives him permission to arise. And you did give him permission to arise, and my anger burns against you.

And though your trespasses weighed heavily against you, you did heed the decoy cries of the toddler and bid me come. And by hearing the fake cries of the toddler, you did allow him to awaken completely. My fury parallels the fire of the sun.

Now, my wrath burns and will not be held back, unless you turn from your ways and bring to me chocolate, refined by Snickers.