04.23.01

if i could write for the enquirer...

she was the exact center of the universe. nobody could possibly argue otherwise. she would raise a pinky slightly and thunderheads would gather in the sky, and at her slow blossoming smile, orange sun would burst through.

she thought she was the perfect chicken. and she would have been, except for the one obvious thing.

a tragedy, really.

she was not a chicken.

perfect, yes. chicken, no. there's no two ways about it, this girl was as far from a chicken as kansas is from china. which is, in case your sense of geography is poor, quite far.

and this is the tragedy, a perfect little girl who was the exact center of the universe who had the galaxy at her beck and call, but wanted only to be prize poultry, the perfect chicken.

she spends her days pecking around in the prairie dirt, trying to build up her calcium supply, because as she says, tears welling up in her perfect violet eyes, "i just want to lay my first eggs."

***

xoxo,

moonbird

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