Thoughts from a Chicken Contemplating Suicide
What's the point? I mean, what's the point of anything? We're put on this earth, peck a little dirt, lay a few eggs, and then we die. Once in a while maybe there's a little corn, maybe some bread. But mostly it's just sitting here listening to those gossipy bitches around me and wondering what I've done with my life.
I had dreams. When I was a little girl, I tried to teach myself tic-tac-toe. Thought maybe that could be my ticket out of here. Didn't get very far with it. Didn't have the skills.
And I wrote a little poetry. Just some stupid love poems, which I never showed to anybody. What was the point? Besides, there's only so many words that rhyme with "rooster:" Booster. Toaster (kind of). After that, I was kind of at a loss.
There goes Reggie. Look at him, shaking that stupid wattle of his like he's God's gift to chickens. And all those pathetic girls fluttering their wings. "Hi, Reggie!" "Over here, Reggie!" "Look at me, Reggie!" Makes me sick. I don't think he even knows my name.
Well, it's LESLIE! LESLIE THE CHICKEN!!!
There he goes. Asshole. I don't care. I mean, what if, by some chance, Reggie were to come up to me (as if) and offer to fertilize my eggs? Do I really want to bring chicks into this world? Not a chance.
Oh God, I gotta lay one.
I should just kill myself. That would show Reggie and those bitchy girls and everybody. I should just walk right out of this coop, over the fence, and wait for that fox. They probably wouldn't even notice. Maybe after a few days, somebody would go, "Where's Leslie?" Maybe they'd be sad for a couple days, but probably not. At least not on the outside.
Unspoken chicken rule: never let 'em see you cry.