When I awoke yesterday morning, the first thought that hit me like a rock between the eyes was, "another damn day in Paradise."

That's how it's been nearly every morning since our discovery that the world was being consumed by a deadly virus.

Before I get into, it, let's talk "gratitude."

Sure, I'm "grateful." There's that word again. Yep, I'm grateful for my husband, our cats, my sister, and her family, and my friends here. And I'm grateful for another day because every day that we're vertical is a great day, right?

Yet, I also feel resentful. And that resentment is at a constant, low simmer, inflaming me from the inside and I'm afraid it's building.

I resent the moronic rednecks who put He Who Shall Go Unnamed in the White House.

I resent the same morons who think masks and social distancing are "electives."

"Hey, you don't wanna? Then you don't hafta. It's your call, Bubba!"

Until of course Bubba and his ilk infect a mother, a father, or someone else with whom they are close.

Thems the breaks, right? Tough shit.

I resent the bigoted assholes who still don't get that, "Yes! Black and Brown lives matter! And if you don't like it, get the fuck out. The world will be a better place without your venomous spew".

I resent the clueless shoppers who don't give a shit about the arrows marking the aisles and can't comprehend that they're there for a reason.

"Oh, you want to go in the opposite direction? Here. Let me cram myself against the Campbell's Soup, schmuck."

I resent the writers here who can't keep their mouths shut when it comes to their big-ass earnings, here. The rest of us don't care. Got it?

I resent the fact that Donald Trump was not thrown out on his orange ass months ago.

I resent the journalists who let POTUS shit all over them and their profession, during the few times he emerges from his bunker to meet with the press.

I resent the TV commercial touting a new razor that shows women shaving leg hair "so long you can braid it," as well as the fuzz over their upper lips. Christ. Whatever happened to "mystery?" Do we really need to see that? What's next? A Gwyneth Paltrow-endorsed Vagina Steamer?

I resent our cable TV and Internet provider for slapping us with an extra fee this month to the tune of $180.

I resent the fact that when I attempted to discover the reason for said fee, the online "agent," (as no one was answering the customer service number), completely screwed up our service package as well as our bill.

I resent the fact that it took me a day and a half, and eight other agents to make things right.

"TV and Internet." That may sound petty, but something tells me you'll know where I'm coming from. Besides, that's all some of us have right now. That "connection" to the world outside and all the horrors therein.

I resent the "no see-ums" that gnaw on me as I sit on our deck writing.

I resent the fact that bugs love to suck my blood. The little bastards.

I resent the asshole neighbors who have been shooting off fireworks that sound like bombs, since the beginning of June. I'm all for a little fun, but fucking REALLY? If you scare our cats, I'm coming after you.

I resent women who feel they need to show off their tits and ass on social media to attain some sort of "validation." For what, I couldn't say. Yeah, I'm bored, too, but can't you switch it up a bit? Why pander to the wankers out there? Not that their bodies aren't beautiful. They are. But I just don't get it.

Maybe there's something wrong with me. What do you think?

Which brings me to my last bit: I resent the fact that I totally buried the lead to this story as I didn't want to think about it.

Yesterday, when I opened the vertical blinds on our deck doors, I saw something that first, looked like a pile of leaves.

I got closer to the door and was able to see what looked like a talon. Then it hit me: It was a bird's foot. And the "leaves" were its feathers.

My heart sank. I love birds and all creatures. We have feeders all over our property.

I didn't know what kind of bird it was, but it was sizable, with gray feathers lightly streaked with yellow.

As my husband is as tender-hearted as I am when it comes to animals, I didn't want him to have to dispose of it. So I put on my Big Girl Pants, got a shovel from the garage and a plastic bag, and went out to the deck to retrieve the poor thing.

I tried to keep my face averted as I attempted to get the bird onto the shovel, which took several attempts. Finally, I succeeded.

When my husband got out of bed, I told him about it and said that I didn't think the bird had been attacked by a critter of some sort, because why leave it on the deck?

He suggested that perhaps it had flown into our deck doors and broke its neck. And that breaks my heart.

Because, as I sit here writing about all the crap getting to me lately, some of it stupid, it hit me that, in another life, I could have been a bird.

A dead bird. On a random deck, somewhere. Far from its nest.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry's manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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