Hi fellow community members! The following is a decent introduction of me. A memory that's been burned into my brain, like a tragicomic tattoo, takes me back to my preschool days. My old man, an unwitting character in my surreal saga, had this weekly ritual of dragging me along to the market. But there was this one time we decided to shake things up and venture through a different entrance, little did I know it would open the gates to a macabre circus. The moment we crossed that threshold, I was hit by a wall of terror. The air was thick with the stench of death, like the ghost of expired meat haunting us. And there it was, a scene that could've sprung right out of a horror movie: diluted blood and murky water giving the streets a new coat of "life," and chickens unleashing symphonies of squeaks that pierced my eardrums like a thousand tiny daggers. Picture this: towers of cages packed with squawking chickens. It's like they were rehearsing for a poultry-themed metal band. Then there were the lines of folks, eagerly waiting to get their hands on headless chickens, because apparently, that's the ultimate delicacy. And if that wasn't enough, buckets overflowing with the remnants of decapitated fowl were scattered around like some grotesque art installation. But the pièce de résistance was this guy in a red apron, resembling a deranged artist, pressing a poor chicken against a table as if he was about to perform some twisted magic trick. With one swift move of his blade, he'd perform the final vanishing act for the chicken's head. That's when it hit me – the gate of hell my elders yapped about; turns out, it's a pop-up chicken beheading show. Dad, sensing my distress, grabbed my hand like a lifeline, and we power-walked through the crowd to the other side of the market – where vegetables and fruits painted a more peaceful picture. But the damage was done, questions bubbling like dark comedy in my head. Why were the chickens in lockup and getting their heads chopped off? And the kicker – were these unfortunate fellas the same ones ending up on our dinner table? Dad's nod confirmed my darkest suspicions. Our chicken nuggets had a rather grim origin story. Now, here's where the black humor really kicks in. I, a mere child with a newly found moral compass, decided I'd boycott chicken, cows, and fish. A preschool-aged activist, if you will. Yet, my silent protest was met with a parental ultimatum: eat what's on your plate or sit there forever. Well, I wasn't about to make my own standing a permanent fixture, so the meat somehow found its way into my belly. As the years trotted on, I kept trying to convince my mom to ditch the animal products and embrace the plant-based life. But she held tight to the notion that meat was some kind of brain fuel – as if chewing on a steak was the secret to unlocking Einstein-level intelligence. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so I started scheming. I struck a deal with my sister, a covert operation that saw her veggies land on my plate and my animal products on hers. Sneaky? Yes. Unethical? Perhaps. But it got me a step closer to a meatless utopia. The turning point came at age fourteen, when my mom finally raised the white flag and surrendered to my vegetarian demands. Victory was sweet, and I relinquished her from her self-imposed meat mandate. The best part? I could finally snack on veggies and fruits without feeling like I was breaking some cosmic law. Fast-forward a few decades, and life delivers its punchline. My mom, now my age, found herself in the company of an unexpected friend – a rooster that knocked on her door, like some punchline to a cosmic joke. This charismatic bird became her confidant, a dedicated listener to her life tales and challenges. They dined together, shared secrets, and exchanged soulful rooster calls, as if life had served her this quirky companion as a parting gift. After she departed this weird and wonderful world, amidst meticulously organized documents, I discovered a little note thanking me for my commitment to vegetarianism, like a final nod to the surreal saga of my life.