You guys remember how I said I wanted to stab the dog? I didn’t, you’ll be happy to know. But she did end up with blood all over her face.

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See I was slaughtering this chicken and after we cut the head off, the dog was trying to catch all the bits that fell on the ground and the little jerk just stuck her head under the neck (or as I like to call it, “the blood faucet”) and gave herself a shower.

Then we waited too long to give her a bath and all the blood clotted into her hair so we had to cut it off. And now she looks all skinny-head-big-body-weird.

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We could have left her that way – she didn’t seem to mind and I’m sure it would’ve come out eventually if it rained enough, or if her little friend got frisky.

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But there’s another workawayer on the farm who’s a vegetarian* and she loves that dog, so we cleaned her up because we’re nice people who care about vegetarians.

*Annina, if you’re reading this, I made all that up. The blood is photoshopped and I didn’t really kill the chicken. Also the dog is a vegetarian, just like you. So am I.

Anyways, who cares about the dog, let’s talk about ME.

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Did you like how I just casually mentioned that I slaughtered a chicken? I was gonna be all cool about it like it’s not a big deal, but who am I kidding, it is a HUGE deal.

I SLAUGHTERED A CHICKEN. WITH MY BARE FREAKING HANDS.

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Okay, I know that gun is hilariously excessive (I look like a badass, though, right?). The point is, however it was done, I DID IT. For real.

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I have a whole bunch of pictures of me killing the chicken – my new friend Tom took them to commemorate my achievement. I was all excited to see them afterward because “I did a new thing!” but then I realized how fucked up it is to take a bunch of pictures of you killing something. So, to prove I’m not a weirdo, I’m not gonna post those pictures here. Sorry.

Side note: For all you freaks out there, I’ve written a special post, just for you, which includes the really classy photos of me killing the chicken (and maybe a few gross ones in which I look adorable). And if we’re ever in the same town and have had a couple of drinks, maybe I’ll show you the hilarious video of me sawing through the little guy’s neck for like 10 minutes and then petting that red floppy thing on his head saying “Sorry man” over and over. You will freaking LOVE it.

Side note to the side note: I realize that posting pictures in a second post instead of this one doesn’t actually prove I’m not a weirdo, and is probably not any more respectful to the chicken. I don’t know what to say about this, other than I changed my mind. (You should stop trying to find logic here.) 

Back to my story.

I kill the chicken, right? No bigs, kinda gross, but I eat animals all the time – If I’m willing to grind up a chicken’s flesh with my teeth and then swallow it, I should also be willing to do the killing part, right? (If you guys would like to have a discussion about how wise and evolved I am, there is a comments section below.)

So I do it and it’s fine. Honestly, I handle most of it like a champ. Even the really gross stuff*.

*WARNING NON-WEIRDOS: That is a link to the really gross stuff. Don’t click on it if you’re squeamish about things like this. And please don’t show it to my Mom or any  potential employers, or Annina the Vegetarian.

ANNINA, DO NOT CLICK ON THE LINK, I FUCKING WARNED YOU.

So here’s the weird thing… a few hours after I’ve killed the chicken, and the flush of I-can-do-anything-I-ain’t-skeert fades, I get this dull headache. Just a small one. I drink a glass of wine and chat with all the folks on the farm about how awesome I am at killing chickens… more headache. I take a shower, trim the dog, practice my juggling. Headache, headache, and then a couple of dry heaves (wha-huh?). I ignore it, because I’m sure I’m imagining this. But then I’m chopping up some peppers for dinner and everything goes spinny and I nearly fall over.

Like, I had to go lie down, I’m not even joking.

And then I’m talking to Harry about how I killed the chicken and it was no big deal, but my eyes won’t stop leaking and then I fall asleep and wake up several hours later with all my clothes on.

I cried myself to sleep, y’all. Over a chicken.

Now, most of you know me, but if you don’t, I have to say this: I am not fucking delicate.

I’m a little scrawny, sure, but I can definitely handle some shit. Slaughtering a chicken is not something I’m gonna get all freaked out about.

Except I keep thinking about how I killed something.

I killed it.

That thing was alive, and now it’s not, because I – Kelly – killed it.

On purpose.

My hands were inside of it, y’all. AND NOT IN A HOT WAY. IN A REALLY, REALLY GROSS WAY.

That is fucking disturbing, if you think about it. I mean, I don’t feel bad about killing the chicken; chickens are food. Yesterday I ate a whole bunch of bacon that had been a real live pig like 2 days before, and it was totally delicious – no regrets, no guilt. I honestly believe it’s completely fine to kill things you want to eat*.

*UNLESS YOU WANT TO EAT PEOPLE IN WHICH CASE STOP READING MY BLOG AND GO FIND A THERAPIST BECAUSE THAT SHIT IS NOT OKAY.

And listen, if I can eat a tomato, I should have no problem doing this. But part of me (I guess) is weirded out about it. So much that my body tried to shut itself down.

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I guess I’m just not good at killing things. And maybe that’s not the worst thing to be not-good-at – I suppose it’s better to be known as a terrible killer than a really great one. I’m just a little disappointed is all. I’ve been practicing being an asshole for years, and it’s strange to suddenly realize you’re not one.

DID YOU HEAR THAT, FORMER CO-WORKERS? I’M NOT AN ASSHOLE AFTER ALL. 

I should have guessed it – I mean look at how good I am with babies.

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Anyways, live and learn, I suck at killing things. If you’d like to see if you’re better at it than I am, here are some helpful instructions to get your started. Let me know how you do.

And for those of you who already know this is a skill you have, please keep at it. The rest of us* are relying on you.

*Except for Annina. But I’m pretty sure she’ll come around once she reads this.

A thousand puppies will live forever if you share this post, I totally swear.

A thousand puppies will live forever if you share this post, I totally swear.

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