Food

There's so much about food to take pleasure from. The aroma, the initiate bite, the taste that fills your mouth, the lingering after-taste as you reminisce the last 10 seconds, and the feeling of complete satisfaction as you lean back in your chair and rub a full tummy.

Chicken.

I bought a chicken for myself earlier today (I'm a skinny guy with a big apetite) from Mang Bok's Manok. The guy asked me what kind of chicken I want, a jumbo or a junior, and I tell him I want the smaller one, because frankly, finishing a big one by myself is quite frightening. So then the guy walks over to the big roaster and picks out a chicken that hangs limply over a charcoal fire. He then takes hold of a butcher's knife and Whomp Whomp, starts cracking and splitting bones. Gristle flies everywhere. Afterwards he neatly packages everything in aluminum foil. That got me thinking.

It must suck to be a chicken.

On the back of my driver's license is the option of whether or not I want to donate an organ in the rare, unfortunate circumstance that I die. I want to write beside it the following:
In the case of my death I'd like to donate my entire body to the Agape Orphanage: I hear they always lacks food. As a final testament, please shave off the excess hair of my body and chop my head off. Skewer my body and roast it over a fire, lechon style. You may glaze my body with any type of seasoning or sauce, my only request is to not use mayo or crisco --- I don't want to break out. I'd also liked to be cooked medium-rare -- I hear that burnt foods are carcinogenic. I want my dark meat to be seperated from the light meat, since I know some people have strict preferences. The rest of my belongings are to be burried in my place.