There's a lot of things I will miss about this place I call home. From the dirty stalls of the market that seem to forever reek of stinky tofu fermentation to the tropical fruits that are swollen with a sugary juice that can only be produced by the brilliant minds of the agriculturalists here. At home I am surrounded by my entire collection of furry plushies that I tearfully left behind during my move to college; a collection contained with youth, innocence and faint memories of boys and middle school cafeteria dances.
Although I have accumulated many things in my life time, few make it to the storage systems of my room but even fewer make it to the top shelf of my bookshelf. The pencil sharpener shaped like a yellow castle was a gift my dad brought home from a business trip when I was 5. Every pencil (whether colored or not) I have dulled since I was 5 have seen the inners of that castle. The trophy marks one of my greatest childhood achievements; 4th place in a chess tournament. And that chicken, a gift from Andy for babysitting Chicken, his pet rooster, for two weeks. It's my earthquake indicator. Every time I see the wobble of the chicken, I find the nearest desk in sight to hide under. I earned it though. Not only did his pet chicken bite then twist the fat on my thigh, but the cops came to look for the queer family that kept a chicken hostage on a city balcony.
This is Chicken (oh how badly I wanted to slay then fry him when it crowed at 4am every morning):
Although I have accumulated many things in my life time, few make it to the storage systems of my room but even fewer make it to the top shelf of my bookshelf. The pencil sharpener shaped like a yellow castle was a gift my dad brought home from a business trip when I was 5. Every pencil (whether colored or not) I have dulled since I was 5 have seen the inners of that castle. The trophy marks one of my greatest childhood achievements; 4th place in a chess tournament. And that chicken, a gift from Andy for babysitting Chicken, his pet rooster, for two weeks. It's my earthquake indicator. Every time I see the wobble of the chicken, I find the nearest desk in sight to hide under. I earned it though. Not only did his pet chicken bite then twist the fat on my thigh, but the cops came to look for the queer family that kept a chicken hostage on a city balcony.
This is Chicken (oh how badly I wanted to slay then fry him when it crowed at 4am every morning):
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