I was cutting up chicken tonight with one of my dad's big, pretty kitchen knives. I love to cut up chicken. Knife tearing through flesh, y'know? It's a good outlet, believe it or not. Like boxing is for some kids. You get to hammer out all your pain and fury to a lifeless weight. Same thing for me, on a lifeless chicken.
I would NEVER, EVER (shall I repeat? NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER) cut myself or a person on purpose for bad reasons ("good" reasons would be "life saving" reasons). Ever. I just like to cut dead chickens.
But the whole time, I had a creepy rhyme in my head that I still can't get rid of...
Snip, snack, slice, crack.
Break the neck, snap the back.
Think I've been watching too many horror/murder movies? Hmm.
That chicken is going to be awfully good eating, though. I'm marinating it overnight. *shivers with delight* Tomorrow, I'm going to grill it, and serve it with mashed potatoes and green beans. I'm making myself hungry just thinking about it, and my mouth is watering.
This is what I get for eating nothing but pizza and hot dogs for weeks at a time, and I hate it. Tomorrow, it will be REAL FOOD. *dies of happiness*
I'm going to go to bed to dream of little chickens diving into a pool of bubbling marinade...
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