*Disclaimer: This post contains profanity. Not that I need a disclaimer on my own damn blog but I'm feeling somewhat courteous today. If curse words offend you try yoga or listen to some music. It helps.
After living closely with farm animals these last few months, I've concluded that the decision for humans to eat meat must have come about out of pure desperation. Like, a chicken is a filthy, disgusting animal. Roosters fight other constantly and rape hens daily. They pick up the baby chicks and throw them around or step on them. A chicks biggest threats are roosters and hawks. Chickens also eat anything that will fit into their disgusting beaks. This includes cooked eggs, eggshells and...chicken. Broiled, baked, or fried. And they shit everywhere. (Sorry Mama but it's true). God. I can't imagine anyone ever looking at a chicken and pleasantly thinking, "Oh I'll just chop it's neck off, pluck the feathers, and roast this strange creature over an open flame!" I image the self-talk went a bit more like this, " I haven't eaten in 10 days and this fuckin, god-awful bird keeps looking at me. Maybe if I kill it first it won't kill me. Maybe once it's dead I could like, eat it or something and maybe then I won't die. "
I've been looking for a reason to stop eating chicken or at least lower my intake for a while now. Thanks to The Gambia I've never been more motivated to eat lettuce.
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So Mickey Mouse and his friends decided that I was lonely and decided to give me company last night. Sometimes I leave my bath water inside so that it's not freezing cold in the morning. Well about 12:30 am what do I hear...SPLISH! Apparently Mickey decided to go for a swim! Oh much to my terror, he splished and he splashed and splished and splashed. My God. You've never heard a more terrifying sound. So. Of course I have to pee (why does my body always betray me in times of crisis!?) and my bath bucket (Mickey's swimming pool) is blocking the door to the Spa. I check the time. It's 1am. I make the executive decision to hold it as long as I can and to tuck my mosquito net in extra tight. Mickey is unpredictable, every few minutes splishing and splashing and I can't run the chance of him bouncing out of his pool (he can have the damn bucket) and on to my feet. I check the time again. 1:07am. Jesus be a bladder made of steel. I jump up. I need a plan. I hear one of Mickey's friends in the front. Why Lawd?! They say they come in threes but why? Why Lawd Why!?!
Ok. Game Plan: run to the front and get the bag Mickey's friend might be in and put it on the front porch. Then run to the Spa and pee then somehow (Lord give me strength) put the bucket outside.
I sit on the bed with a flash light moving it around the room for the next ten minutes.
You can do this Kanika. I put the plan in motion. Once I make it outside, terror sets in again. I have to cross Mickey's swimming pool to get back in but I really need to get the bucket out. Lordt. I find a really big stick and use it to drag the bucket out back. Mickey is surprisingly calm. Or dead. I run back inside and lock the door. I'm in bed all of five minutes and what do I hear, Mickey outside still getting his swim on. I thank the Lord that he's on the other side of the door and pray he dies by the time I wake up.
Morning comes. I go outside to find my "Big Father" ( I'll explain later). I do a crazy mix of sign language and broken Pulaar and tell him to come save me. He thinks I'm crazy. Finally he understands. He grabs the bucket. Mickey is still alive. He grabs the big stick and pins him in the bucket. I scream. Ammadou rolls his eyes. He takes Mickey out to the front yard and beats him with the stick. He had it coming. Trespassing is a crime!
So there you have it friends. And the moral of this real life tale of terror is: Apparently a bucket with 5 inches of water in it is an effective mouse trap.
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This is a good week. I'm generally happy. Ain't cursed nobody out. Ain't had to live vicariously through Boosie. I've had a little variety in my diet and I'm excited about the task ahead of me. Been talking to God pretty heavy. I can't say that things are looking up because that would imply that they were down. Things are good. I'm good. God is good and that is alright with me.
Kanika: Poet. Lover of Words. One who tells the stories of the mundane and inanimate. Bearer of Light, Water, and Sky.