What I Ate: January 10th, 11th, 12th, & 13th. Funeral Food.

Fried chicken. So much fried chicken.

Normally, I’m kind of a bitch about chicken. I’m like ‘I’m so scared of where it came from and how it was treated while alive and how it was killed and how dirty the meat could be and how gross and how yech and how blahblahblah….’

Not on January 10th, 11th, 12th and 13th, though. Not the fuck at all. I filled my plate and I kept my head down. I pulled the white meat out from under the skin, the dark meat away from the bone, the gristle as far away from my other food as I could, and the remains out of my teeth for the rest of the damn day — every day — until I got my hands on some floss. And if we’re being honest, when I flossed at the end of the night on each of the nights, I didn’t spit it all out. I chewed some of it, some of the times. It was the remains of the chicken from my mother’s funeral meal. It was something I could never get back. It was too significant. It was impossible to digest. My mother was gone.

**

Had my mother still been alive on those days, I would have been acting my usual self. Being a real picky bitch about food. I will go hungry before I will eat something I don’t really want. Food just seems too precious to fuck around with.