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  • Writer's pictureSkye Cabrera

The Chicken or The Egg?

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Maybe it was the chicken. Maybe it was the egg. Either way, it doesn't matter now which caused this mess. There's an extra number on the scale, newly formed fat on my body, and a growing rock inside my stomach.

My hands wandered around my flesh. I let my eyes judge it, scrutinize it, and watch its every move. After all, I have to be stuck with it for the rest of my life. I at least should have the right to do as I pleased. A lump of fat from my abdomen stuck out like a sore thumb. I grabbed onto it like a butcher examining its slaughter, inspecting it with anything but care. To describe what it felt like would be a disgusting crime. It did, however, confirm my suspicions.

I have gained weight.

The nightmares of the crisp number 25 on the BMI scale started to haunt my reality. I would do anything to make it all go away. Suddenly, perhaps a sign from the almighty, I had the urge to cut it all off, to grab a knife and carve my waist into a beautiful C, to flatten my abdomen with a sword, to slice the fat off my thighs with a scythe, and to sculpt my face with a chisel. What a bloody affair it would all be. However, I know deep inside me that I deserve both the excruciating pain and the result of such horror. For though, I am truly nothing but an imperfect failure. Does that sin equate to a life sentence with this disgusting body? If God was any real, I am sure he would say no.

A cold feeling suddenly rushed through my body. For a while, I thought my brain had gotten tired of sending signals to my nerves. Everything stopped... until it didn’t.

The large rock that was once sedentary began to climb my throat. It got bigger and bigger, blocking my airway. I couldn't breathe. Bit by bit, I was sure I was turning into ash. Fresh provincial winds could have blown me away if they wanted. At that exact moment, I knew something was severely wrong with me. When overwhelming fear would have struck most people, I felt nothing of that sort. I even smiled at my fate. I happily shook its hands and hugged it close. In many ways, it felt more like a reunion of two old friends rather than euthanasia. It felt peaceful. Nothing in this whole world would have disturbed it.

Well. Nothing except for the rock sitting on top of my throat. It hated me. I, on the other hand, hated it more. It took away my peace. Instead of being particles of dust carrying pollen away or fragments of sea winds guiding boats to shore, I'm on my knees. The rock out of my system. Undigested lunch on the floor.

Oh, it was chicken.


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