Nobody ever worries about the shell.

We talk about the chicken and the egg in this trite, shallow way in which we try to determine the catalysts in the cyclical pattern of cause and effect. To have a chicken in order to have an egg, said chicken has to have at one point been an egg. And to have been an egg, that chicken would have needed another chicken to produce her. And for that chicken who produced her to have existed…and on. and on. and fucking on.

And we have these debates over and over again like they are the first fucking time and anything new is going to develop.

Sure. It’s an interesting question. But we’ve got the point and nobody fucking knows. And they’re not going to know. Not going to happen. Put two lawyers in a room–or two philosophers (how different are they really minus their motivations?)–and you can make a case for either.

Yet. We talk about this damn question like there is going to be something fucking novel and do you know what that whole question misses, like every other societal conversation we have, what happens to the fucking shell that is necessary for both the chicken and the egg to reproduce and to be born?

But that shell is an object. It produces offspring which can therefore be used for society’s purposes–likely against the awareness of the chicken who keeps reproducing because she is forced and that’s what chickens do. And that’s all we expect of chickens. It’s fucking simple. Vessel for an output we can use for economic gain.

Sound like anything familiar to you?

Soldiers? What do you need to make soldiers? Yet talking about supporting the troops is noble and talking about women’s rights is outrageous, shameful, entitled, and aggressive. Ultimately, I would argue, rich people don’t care about soldiers either–if mothers are the chickens and soldiers are the freshly born chicks, their future has limited options and is ultimately up to the man who chooses how he wants to use them, as consumables or as tools for gain. Farmers are pretty worthless without their seeds and their animals. Because they can’t create life from either. It’s the same thing for the fables rich men promote in society because they need people to work in their factories, buy their shit, and produce the children who will defend their rights and property. After all, who will go on to fight their wars so they can make deals on the seventh hole to have the government pay them to build supplies for military campaigns so they can have extra mansions and an apartment in the city where they can screw their mistresses because being a billionaire and having everything, including a beautiful family that wants your love, isn’t enough.

Why, in the seven circles of hell, do we waste our time talking about the chicken or the egg when we ultimately only care about the farmer? The chicken, the egg, and the shell are all just means to an end and that end is determined by a man who has no actually role in that process.

We only care about the farmer. Everything in this world revolves around what powerful men want and what they can do to gain more money they don’t need. And we call that pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and what a wonderful manifestation of the American Dream we have here, in front of us, on a white picket-fenced farm in Pleasantville, USA where a man lives harmoniously among creatures that are controlled, work for him, and can’t exercise any will of their own. And if they could, he wouldn’t want them there because there is no place for their will. The whole thing functions on them falling into line and serving the functions necessary.

Just like the broken, discarded shell that once gave nutrients and bore life is forgotten. It has done its job. It lays, shattered in a chicken coop, speckled in shit I am sure, if the chick is given the chance to be born. It is used to hold this innocent, defenseless chick (an incredible feat if you think about it) until it can care for itself and then we forget the very thing that would not provide us with the chicken or the egg should it not fulfill its obligations.

We don’t talk about what’s broken. Because we have no use for broken things and in a world where you can get everything cheap to function just as long as you need it and get a new one for cheaper rather than restore it, we trash things. And we trash and discard people. You see it all the time in universities, organizations, everything. Once your utility has met its limits, you are no longer viable.

And, worst of all, shells don’t form protective double-domes because they are holding our breakfast (and don’t get me wrong, I love eggs but that isn’t my point). So what happens when we take that shell, break it open for our uses, and consume its contents? We throw it away and, a little grossed out by the snot-textured inner walls, we go to wash our hands.

Sure, animal rights are important. But as we talk about birth control and abortion, I can’t help feel like the shell, not the chicken or the egg. Because I am a vessel. Meant to carry something. Should I be permitted and able to carry it, I will give life. However, should somebody pluck me prematurely from my warm, idyllic nest, and crack me open because of what is inside me, I could potentially have no more choices than that shell. Somebody else decides they want what is inside of me, how they want it, and when they want it. They take it for their own purposes, be it the production of life or enjoyment of its contents, and move on. They speak about the treatment of the defenseless chick, which is worth discussing but never consider what it might be like to be taken against your will, broken up, and consumed. Fractured beyond repair, once strong enough to sustain and protect life and now too structurally weak to hold itself up.

We break shit. That’s what we do. We all break shit for our own gain or turn our heads to the people who are broken because we have no more idea what to do with broken people than we do with broken shells. Garbage dumps are littered, I’m sure, with broken shells because we have nowhere else to put them. No longer in any form to be used for utility or decoration.

I am so sick of being that shell and so sick that we aren’t human enough to talk about those fucking shells who walk along us and beside us every day. I am tired of waiting for somebody to crack me and inevitably throw me away. I want people to care how fucked up it is that these broken shells did not ask to be shells. They did not ask to be appealing to farmers, or, probably more accurately, hunters who are hungry and looking for something they can take. All we can talk about is the chick or the food that emerges from that shell afterwards. We don’t care so much about what carries them. It is in its nature to be cast off when we are through with it. If it’s no longer a part of the process after its utility, who cares where it came from and where she went? It has served its purpose. Onto the next shell.

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