That chicken has more silicone in its tits than Dolly Parton. But if you put enough seasoning on it you might disguise the taste of plastic and convince yourself that what you’re eating is grade A, farm fresh livestock bred by a single farmer whose whole life has been dedicated to serving you this beautiful plump chicken.
Stop ignoring it. You’re putting shit into your body and then you’re upset when your doctor tells you you’re suffering from [insert choice disease here], something incurable unless you take [insert choice medicine here].
This week’s prompt is TRUTH, so obviously I was inclined to write fiction. In today’s world, we treat truth just like we treat the food we eat. We live easy, quick lives with instant gratification and then inflate the results and paint a smile on our faces and in many instances commit suicide because, shit, everybody else looks so happy it’s impossible to measure up. We treat the truth like we treat a corporate visit to our location of work. Or when our mothers tell us to clean our room as children. Pile it all up under your bed and throw a sheet over it (Colton, calm down, I’m sure you dry-cleaned, ironed and hung your suits up perfectly fine at age 5). Add more layers to disguise the truth. More and more and more. Two fakes don’t equal a truth, and fifty even less so. Society is an onion doused in the pesticide of lies and if you peeled away the clean, white layers you’d find the center rotten black. I’m not a bitter as I sound, and I’m also not telling you this because I’m outside the onion. Hell, I’m a fucking writer so I’m probably as oniony as it gets. Every word I put on this page gets carefully selected so I can control the light in which you see me. Perfectly cast the shadows on the parts of me I don’t want you to know about.
But the problem is that with every lie we are increasing the measure at which young children gage their success. If a kid doesn’t go to college to make $80,000 a year to provide for a marriage and children will that be deemed a failure? That’s a trick. Because you get to that point – forty years old with a good job and a family and you realize you still haven’t bought a boat. And you only have four bedrooms. You’re still a failure. You will always be a failure to society, because nobody can ever define what success is because success doesn’t exist. The concept that there is an end-all where you sit in your armchair and think, “Man, I sure am successful and everybody agrees” is an idealistic venture that will lead you into your deathbed miserable and unsatisfied. Chasing success is like hunting bigfoot – you can probably make a TV show about it but you’ll never catch the fucker.
This is the part where I tell you to chase happiness instead, but that’s stupid too. Stop chasing anything except for your own improvement. Don’t chase happiness. Find happiness – in as much as you possibly can. The idea that only one thing can mean your happiness is so fucking bland it makes me want to throw up the silicone-injected chicken I just ate.
The world puts all these meaningless keywords in our vocabulary like success that really just mean “the accomplishment of an aim or purpose” (thanks Google). If we treated the word success verbatim, you would be successful every time you opened the door or took a step. Every time you stole a kiss from your partner. Every time you whipped out your dick and took a piss: success. To achieve an intended result by imposing an action. That’s success. Suddenly I don’t care to be successful because that word has no fucking power anymore. I’m successful all day long. Chase your self-improvement and find everything you’re looking for in the world around you. If it’s not there, you need to move, but don’t think that the more successful you get the more the world will change. The only thing that’s going to change is you. Find happiness. Chase development. Stop fucking around with the notion of success.
That escalated quick. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, chickens.