Why, oh why did hundreds of innocent blackbirds plummet to their deaths on a frosty new year's eve in Beebe Arkansas? I don't think I can get over this because of the great love I have had for birds ever since my dear papa used to call me his little gosling.
Well, you have certainly opened up a can of worms with this letter haven't you? Lie down on the couch while I press my fingertips together in a thoughtful pose, draw a deep breath and wrinkle my forehead in deep thought.
As I slice through the craggy recesses of your cobwebby psyche with my scalpel-like intuition , I sense that dead blackbirds are the least of your problems.
Your difficulties began because your father and mother - although sharing a love of nature, were obviously embroiled in deep conflict over you. I would venture it was your mother that named you "Bea", in a subliminal misspelled bid for the "sweetness" of your affection.
Your father, in a bold attempt to undermine your confidence and the mother/daughter relationship, called you his little "gosling", heaping on you the unpleasant connotations of geese with their prodigious honking noises, irritating splats of falling excrement and a reputation for nasty temperament.
Bea, you don't know who you are!
My advice to you is
a. Lose the beehive hairstyle
b. Admit that nothing good will come from stalking Ryan Gosling
c. Vow never to recite the "four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie" nursery rhyme again.
c. Change your name to Verna and quit watching the news