Almost nothing in life, outside of actual human affection, makes me happier than a big bucket of chicken. Since I started my diet over a year-and-a-half ago, I have not had one big bucket of chicken. I still struggle with bouts of anxiety and depression, but whenever I see a KFC commercial, I am fleetingly and overwhelmingly happy for about 30 seconds. I need to either eat a big bucket of chicken at least once a week, or watch like an extended hour long KFC commercial every night.
I’m still able to satisfy my food cravings weekly, as I typically go off my strict diet on weekends and special occasions. Big buckets of chicken always seem too decadent, though. Also, the closest KFC is at least 20 miles away. By the time I bring it home it will be all soggy. I guess I’ve associated KFC with fat Jeremy and not KFC with skinny Jeremy, but damn, I need a big bucket of chicken right now. I am not forgetting about the sides. I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat a big bucket of chicken without mashed potatoes and coleslaw.
Back in college, my friend and I would get a big bucket of chicken, a 24 pack of Red Stripe, and watch a marathon of The X-Files every Thursday night. By about 10 pm I would feel miserably full, drunk, and would become unreasonably upset that Scully wouldn’t believe Mulder at the beginning of every episode, yet he always proved that he was right by the end.
I usually try to connect my inane post to something with a deeper meaning, but I just want chicken. KFC is one of the biggest fast food chains in the world. Maybe you can open within Houston city limits. There’s like eight million Popeyes within a quarter mile radius of my house. Somebody please explain this to me.
under Date Night
The worst part of a date, or any general social interaction, is the awkward silence that ensues whenever a conversation is not occurring. The silence often follows a statement that was ill-conceived or overly emotional. For example, I say, “I hear the chicken is good” to which you reply, “Chickens are often malnourished and crammed into small spaces before they are killed to be eaten.” Following twenty minutes of dead air, I say, “How about the steak?”
The previous conversation has never happened, but the following has: “So how is law school, Melissa?” Melissa looks at me without saying anything. Though this silence was fleeting and probably lasted ten seconds, it felt like three hours. I had no idea what I did wrong. Melissa finally answered with a clever little quip, “I am in med school and my name is Rebecca.” I felt really bad, but seriously, I had already met like seven girls named Melissa whom are all currently attending law school. By the time I met the fifth Melissa, I just assumed…
It was a good assumption, because it is very close to the truth.
“So Rebecca, I hear the chicken is good,” I say. I did not know, nor was I prepared for the fact that she had dissected a chicken earlier that day. Instead of giving me the usual PETA-inspired diatribe about abused chickens, she replies in horrific detail what the inside of a chicken looks like. I thought that I already knew what the inside of a chicken looked like: Sometimes it looks like a grilled breast, while other times it looks somewhat like a fried wing. Astoundingly, this is not what the inside of a raw chicken looks like at all. She then started showing me pictures of this poor chicken on her cell phone. This was after we had already gotten our food. Rebecca’s chicken looked far worse and only somewhat delectable. Thank goodness I got spaghetti. Spaghetti is often a safe go-to food because not only have noodles and sauce rarely been abused, but if the .083% chance arises where your date shows you pictures of a mutilated animal, there is a very good chance that that animal is not on your plate.