Don’t worry. I’m not going to enumerate them here. (As if any of us
have time for that pity party.)
Nope. I’m just going to state one and let its fowl-ness lie there and stink.
Ready for it?
It’s the chicken suit.
The darn disorder stuffs its sufferer into one every time you
hesitatingly step foot outside your front door.
It’s a big, bulky, hot, uncomfortable, itchy suit that is thankfully
invisible to the rest of the world but freaking real to its bearer.
And let me tell you, it takes a lot of guts to try to make a chicken
suit look good. Most of the time you fall on your feathered behind, clucking up
apologies as you try to maneuver your poultry-self into a fetal ball…
But sometimes you strut.
For a fleeting moment, you are the cock of the walk.
And, man, you feel good! Nobody can pull off chicken-wear like you…
Of course, most of the time you simply just lay an egg and squawk
inelegantly at the world, but I guess that’s life as a chicken.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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