I worry that this chicken is going to get picked on 'cause she has dumb hair.
I worry that this chicken is a bantam because she seems to be getting littler as the other chicks get bigger. Actually, I'm sure she's a bantam and I didn't want a bantam on account of their tiny eggs. Clearly someone at the chicken store goofed. Now we're stuck with pygmy girl. Maybe she can be friends with silly hairdo.
I worry about this chicken because I think she's a he. I'm focusing on the comb, which is very pronounced and red compared to the other Buff Orpington combs. Should my fears bear out, I will have to send this poor bird away to die, or kill him myself. If you know me at all, you know what I'm going to do, but let's not count our chickens.
I worry that my "office" looks like this and smells like barnyard compressed into a very small space where the windows can not be opened because of the bee hives right outside.
I worry that it doesn't worry me that my son's bedroom looks like this. At least the cat is there to keep back the vermin.
Also, I worry that I get overly involved in television shows. Aren't you supposed to be, like, fourteen when the impulse to hang a poster of Tim Riggins on the bedroom wall strikes? I still wonder sometimes about Angela and Jordan Catalano. Did her parents work things out? Did Ricky find peace? And Jim and Pam, Derek and Meredith, the Sheriff and the Widow, all my old pals in the O.C. . . .
These days I just want to be a Dillon Panthers rally girl.