So recently I announced that I was giving up chicken. It was, I admit, a bit of a left turn, perhaps, given the context within the story that it was coda to. But hear me out. I'll try not to be too long-winded.
For a while now I've been feeling like I've just ignored the masculine part of myself, focused on music and clothes and socializing and developing my Regina persona. I've been feeling a void there. Something in there has been making me itch for a fight. It's like I was getting this primal grunt message telling me to test myself. Despite the abrasions and contusions and the aches and pains, I'm glad that it was with someone I love, my brother-in-law Reuben, rather than some asshole at a bar or in a parking lot or in traffic. I mean, we definitely didn't go too easy on each other, but it's a far cry from scrapping with someone who actually wants to injure you.
Like I said in the previous post, I learned a lot in our little backyard wrestling session. Somehow in that tussle something clicked in my brain. I don't want to consume anything that'll make me weaker.
You see, there's arsenic in our chicken. In large enough doses, arsenic is fatal. But small doses over longer periods of time cause cancer. I've know this for a few months now but wrestling ultimately was the straw that broke the, well, you know. That's not to mention the fact -which everyone knows- that it's loaded with hormones and antibiotics.
It's just the start. Lily and I want to raise our children to have healthy eating habits, so no more yardbird for us unless maybe we can find an arsenic-free source.