I don’t know how else to say it so I’ll just say it. I can be a chicken from time-to-time. I don’t like it. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am and I don’t want to be.
There’s so much I would do if I didn’t have chickenitis.
- I’d try my hand at broadcasting again, a television or radio talk show for sure.
- I’d open up a pie business selling sweet and savory hand-held pies.
- I’d host fabulous events for women that helped them spirit, soul, and body and provided free stuff Oprah-style.
- I’d publish the children’s book I wrote several years ago.
- I’d run for political office.
- I’d charge a fee to teach artists, athletes and preachers how to speak correctly and in a more relatable/marketable way, especially when speaking to the media.
- I’d travel across country starting in Mobile and ending in LA.
- I’d learn to dance (line dance, stepping, ballroom, tap, you name it. I’d be a dancing machine!).
- I’d be a wedding DJ.
- I’d ride the roller coaster at Six Flags that scared the living day lights out of me when I was six years old.
- I would learn to swim.
- I’d get another degree in Counseling or Human Resources.
- I’d write a book about my life, especially the last fifteen years.
- I would live on a yacht for a month.
- And the list goes on.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against chickens, just being chicken. I realized through research that chickens can only fly so high. I don’t want my chickenitis to be the cause of me never really making it off of the ground. If I have wings I won’t them to work! So there you have it. I don’t want my chicken. It serves me no purpose, and actually robs me of my purpose. So I figuratively ask, will someone please burn my chicken?