Hey you! Yeah, you. The one nervously walking by me while I guard the sidewalk with my long-necked attitude. You think if you veer around me at an undignified trot, I’m not going to honk like a 1970s New York City cabdriver? Think again, my non-feathered friend.

Just because you pay too much rent to live in an only okay apartment with a quartz kitchen island countertop and laminate wood floors, you think you own the sidewalk? Don’t make me laugh. Because geese can’t laugh, we honk. Nonstop.

Me and my fellow Canucks have moved in, and you’re answering to us now. Want to walk on poop-free asphalt to one of your two designated parking spaces? Too bad. Watching you mince along with your stupid non-webbed feet and dodging goose-excrement landmines really gets our feathers flapping.

Headed to your apartment’s inexplicably tiny gym to work out—but only if a bench is available and no more than four people are in there? Looks like you’re all Lululemoned up with no place to go, because I’m blocking your way, daring you to walk by me. It’s a game of chicken, except I’m a big-ass goose and I move aside for no one.

Oh, did you plan to spend a quiet morning on a balcony with poorly nailed wooden floors and the relaxing view of a busy street? Guess who’s coming for breakfast: me and all my rowdy friends, honking at an ear-splitting volume for thirty minutes, minimum.  Enjoy your coffee, asshole.

Taking your medium-sized, apartment-approved dog to the poorly maintained “dog park” that’s just a fenced-in batch of patchy grass smaller than your oddly shaped second bedroom? Too bad for you, schmuck-breath. We got there first, even though we have wings and could be literally anywhere else. Your dog’s going to bark like a hypoallergenic Cujo while we watch smugly from a safe distance, just to piss him off even more.

Oh, is it time to grab the mail from the communal mailbox that’s so inconveniently located it defies all logic and reason? Someone is waiting for you. Hint: it’s not the postman. I’m perched on top of the roof like a harbinger of doom in a freaking fairy tale. Looks like that 10% off coupon for the Kettering Plaza Texas Roadhouse off I-71 will have to wait.

Hot today, isn’t it? Time to take your plucked ass to the disappointingly small pool (that looks nothing like the website photos), along with the dismaying number of screaming children who haven’t gone inside to use the bathroom in a suspiciously long time. But wait, who’s that glaring at you from the shallow end? It ain’t a whimsical pool floatie from Amazon, sweet cheeks. And those aren’t mini candy bars, either.

This is your life now.  Think we’ll fly south? We’re from Canada, bitch. This IS south. And no, we’re not flying back to Canada, are you crazy? It’s super-freaking cold there, like, all the time. We’re never leaving.

Even if you move, your next place might not have a ceiling fan in every room, it might not have greige walls with white trim, it might not even have ceilings so high you need an extension ladder to reach the smoke alarms, but I can guarantee what it will have: a fucking pond.

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Jessie Lea Pingle is a copywriter and folksy gal who would love to grab a margarita sometime. She’s from Ohio and all her favorite recipes contain cream cheese. She occasionally writes humorous essays and funny short stories. You can find her work at Medium and jessieleapingle.com