This Is Not My Life

A Story by ruthless baby

I remember the ducks. It was by far the stupidest thing I ever attempted aside from trying to have a family of my own and setting my eyebrows on fire grilling steaks using gasoline instead of actual starting fluid.

Then there was my belief manifesto: unorthodox far fetched stretches of idealistic fatherhood with high morals from a beer can. I thought I was loved. This is my life story, the story of my death, and the reason why little chicks start out so cute yet there only purpose is to s**t all over the floor and eat. Feeders they are. Slaves as they are refered to by the upper crust. Disposable people whom fight amongst themselves like chickens in a cage, cluck, bat there foolish little eyes only to peck my tolerance beyond redemption mimicking me, thinking they are me. Too beautiful; two beautiful chicks. Could I ask for more sweet suffering than to have ever known them.

I do not know why I am drawn to her.

Chef Ray, A small Philipino gentleman with a culinary background from the Navy, the Pentagon to be exact. Black greasy hair and a smile that made people nervous. He taught me everyting I know about cooking (and he got me into this mess). She was pretty, golden hair; curled and down her back far past her shoulders. She rarely spoke, I would try to talk to her and she would spin around on her heels and ignore me.

Chef Ray, " give her this" placing in my hand a chocalate candy coin wrapped in golden foil...

It was her own mother. She can’t face that sort of thing alone. I’ve made my decision to stay with her ( and more than publicly, lol)