If I were a chicken, I know I wouldn’t want to be a nugget (or a patty, or a buffalo ranch sandwich, or whatever; you get the idea). I also wouldn’t want my embryos eaten, either. I’m sure I’d be a pro-choice chicken, but I’d much rather have my yolk and whatnot go to embryonic chicken stem cell research rather than an omelet. That would just be too weird.
But if I had to be somebody’s food, I would want to at least be happy food. I wouldn’t want to live what little life I had in a tiny cramped cage, being pecked or peed on by my neighbor. I would want to be able to turn around, take a dump in different place than the one I’m sitting in, that kind of thing.
That actually sort of sounds like my first apartment, only worse.
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