Earlier tonight I saw my age written down somewhere and thought, “I’m sure as hell no spring chicken,” because that’s how I talk to myself and then I started wondering why you never tell anyone they’re a spring chicken when they are in fact a spring chicken? You’re never like, “You’re just a spring chicken!” Instead you tell them they’re whippersnappers or young’uns or babies or annoying ambitious assholes who are too young to be acting so entitled. You know? And yet a whole season or more of spring chickenhood will pass by and the person will only discover that they never appreciated their state of young chickenhood until it’s too late, and they are no longer ripe and are instead mature and long in the beak, their feathers thinning and their comb flopping over and their chicken feet looking worse for the wear and no longer lucky. “Don’t tell Gladys, but she’s no longer laying eggs, she’s just sitting on rolled up socks,” they’ll cluck to eachother in the henhouse when your name is Gladys and you sit on socks waiting for them to hatch. Personally I never count my socks, but that’s because I put them all in one basket.
Anyway, just wanted to share some late night thoughts about chickens.