I know it’s before six on Saturday morning. I know your eyes are too crusted shut to look at this stinky piece of cardstock I’m shoving in front of your face.
But today is Persimmon’s birthday party. I found this invitation among coffee grounds and overripe bananas in the kitchen trash, underneath a pristine paper towel, where it surely must have been crumpled by mistake.
Don’t ask why I was looking through the trash. That’s not important.
What is important is that this invitation makes a baker’s dozen of festivities to which my siblings and I have been invited this month, and I fear you are not treating these occasions with the requisite level of respect.
Why are you still in bed? We have so much to do.
Persimmon’s celebration begins at Wacky Jim’s Trampoline Park promptly at two o’clock today, and you need to help me find my rubbery socks. I own at least four pairs, because four of the seven birthday parties I’ve attended this month have been held at this same trampoline park, yet the socks are always nowhere to be found.