P stands for Perfeckt

Without skipping a beat I raised an eyebrow and shouted “BITCH I MIGHT BE!”

When I was about four, I’d help my grandpa with the farm chores. I especially loved feeding the chickens because I got to see the hundreds of little baby chickens playing around our chicken house. I’d always ask why they ran when I went close, and my grandpa would always tell me because they thought I was a big chicken hawk.

Well, one day, I got it in my mind, that I was gunna prove to them that I was nice, and not going to eat them. I asked my grandpa if I could have one for a pet. He laughed and said “Sure buddy, go catch you one.” I was elated. I ran around the building and grabbed one. I was so proud of myself. It was the time that I started petting it and it started chirping away, that I realized a life lesson.

The hen ran around the corner looking for her biddy. when she saw it in my arms, in the air she went. The spurs on the back of a chickens leg are razor sharp on the tips, and her spurs were especially long. She made contact with my face, and her spurs dug into my cheeks. They went all the way through, and touched in the middle.

My grandpa pulled the chicken off and scooped me up in his arms. he ran me back to his house, and doctored my battle wounds. “Why didn’t you tell me paw paw?” I sobbed. He looked down at me as he was wiping the blood from my cheeks, “I know now that you will remember forever… that you never mess with a mommas babies.” he replied.

From that day forward, I have scars that made dimples… to remind myself, that family is too strong to be messed with.

anyone? help? My uncle died… and that hurt me enough. but now my scrimpy? What did I do? Why does it have to hurt so bad just to live? and why does it always have to happen when I’m alone completely?