And I finally do it.
I break my own rule, pull out my phone, and I snap a picture of Jonas.
I haven’t done it yet. I haven’t wanted anyone to see if I lost my phone and they hacked it, which, yes, is an abnormally ridiculous paranoid thought, but it’s also the truth.
That viral video changed me.
I don’t trust things the way I used to.
But I trust Jonas.
And I want a picture of him and my chicken.
Unfortunately, though, Yolko Ono is nothing if notverysensitive to someone looking at her—even when she’s sleeping—and I’ve barely hit the shutter button before she startles awake with a squawk of terror.
And I do mean asquawk of terror.
It’s loud. It’s sudden. If it could echo in here, it would.
It’s like the chicken version of my brother sneezing but longer.
Weirdly more annoying too.
Theo at least stifles it the best he can if he knows he’s sneezing while people are sleeping.
Yolko Ono?
She’s informing the entire world that her aura has been violated, and she would please like rescue personnel to come treat her for emotional distress.
I’m used to this.
Jonas, however, is not.
Clearly.
You can tell by the way he bolts straight upright on the couch, sending the chicken tumbling beak over claws with a terrified chicken-yelp while he tosses the quilt aside, which also ends poorly for Yolko Ono.
Who falls off the couch.
Inside the quilt.
While squawking like the house is being invaded by flaming Martians who are lighting everything up with their eyeballs.
“Who—what—I’m up. I got this,” Jonas gasps.
He leaps to his feet, taking the rest of the quilt with him, and trips over the fabric.
Yolko squawks in terror again.
Jonas flails on the floor.
And I—
I am not proud of what I do.
I just want to state that for the record.
Nothing about my reaction to the two of them scaring the ever-loving chicken shit out of each other is appropriate.
