Why my chickens are actually spawns of satan: a true story

Today I found myself jolted awake by the sound of someone screaming. It was still dark, light just barely coming over the tops of trees outside my dirt streaked window. I looked around in horror, eyes wide open, hand on my phone which charges on my dresser each night. I waited in the silence, listening. BAAWCCCAAAAAAAAAW! I groaned and stuffed my face under my pillow. "Every single fucking morning", I whispered to myself. "I will eat you!" I yell, loud enough to hopefully incite fear all the way from the skin on the back of their necks to the tips of their feathers. Instead they just screech louder; probably demanding french toast, a side of bacon, and a glass of orange juice to wet their pallets. Of course, I don't speak chicken so we will probably never know.

See, my chickens are special. Take that however you will, for I could mean they are like a surprise, something that makes you smile a little each time you see it. Or, and most likely, they are the kind of special your parents called you after you put the dirty clothes in the dishwasher that one time. I was like six, sue me. Anyways. Chickens. Every morning I wake up at around 6am to a symphony of chicken screams. They aren't screaming per say, but instead are using the best way they know how to get me up in the morning. The first few times it happened, I could be seen by neighbors, rushing down my creaky wooden stairs in my sports bra and underwear, across the yard, under the tree, and flinging the chickens cage door open, thinking I'd spend the next few seconds watching them getting eaten by a rabid dog. Instead, however, they would shake out their feathers, and walk slowly past me, out into the yard, laughing among themselves. I soon learned I couldn't ignore them in the mornings either, for they would just get louder (if such a thing was even possible).

A few months after I bought them, they began laying eggs. I realized this, not because they would lay in the soft, secluded, boxes I had built for them, but instead they would lay them everywhere. Oh you think I'm joking, don't you. I mean everywhere. In trees, in bushes, under piles of firewood, on top of my ping pong table. So now along with waking up at 6am each morning, I have to now go find their god damn eggs. A forty minute ordeal at least. If you have read this far you probably want to know what these miniature satan replicas look like. So here:

This is Belvedere (Bell-va-deer). She is honestly my favorite (don't tell the others they will probably peck my to death in my sleep). She is even mannered, loves to be stroked, and her favorite food is corn. 9/10 on the chicken scale.

This is Psycho. Literally satan. Favorite thing to be: an asshole. Favorite food: my fingers. 2/10, would not recommend.

This is Peeves. Like the Harry Potter ghost, shush I know I'm a nerd. For some reason even though she is basic and white, she still can't take a good photo.

This here is Speckles. Speckles made me realize a few days ago that I actually do somewhat like these grain whores. She went missing and I went all over my neighborhood looking for her. It was dark, I was crying. I come back after an hour to call it a night when out comes speckles from a tree three feet over from the cage. So yah, never mind about the caring for these A-holes.

This is Americana. Maybe I was feeling patriotic when I thought her name up, maybe I was on acid, who knows. She is scared of me so she just kind of lurks in the shadows. I do see her sharpening her beak every once in a while, so she is definitely planning on killing me. Also take note of Peeves photo bombing. She thinks she is so cute for some reason. Basic bitch.

Last but not least are Hamilton, far back, and Lafayette. I'm cultured, thank you I know. These two are the newest additions to the family. Lafayette hates me (understandable) and Hamilton actually has some mental deficiency. And 3 extra toes.

Even though these ferocious beasts have taken chunks out of my fingers more times then I can count on my fingers still left (8), and have woken me and the entire neighborhood up early for the past two and a half years, they are still family. And they are still spawns of satan.