The aroma of chicken soup teases my nostrils, now red and swollen.
I squinch my eyes from sinus pain. Temples throb. Joints ache.
My pity party halts as I reflect on the chicken’s last day. What it ate. How it died.
Maybe I’ll eat scrambled eggs and buttered toast instead.
Jeff Switt likes to write.
So Jeff,
Too squeamish to eat the bird, but happy to nosh on it’s babies? Tee hee. Nice writing mate.
Ah a fan of irony!
Nice. Enjoyed the thought.
LOL, my #1 fan, my wife!