When the Rooster Meets the Duct Tape and the Coffee Mug
Why I let him flap, squawk, and peck my toes every single time.
Every Tuesday, a rooster named George tries to kill my career.
He’s not real, not technically. George is the algorithm — loud, territorial, and convinced the barnyard belongs to him. Every time I post an essay, there he is: flapping, screeching, and reminding me that visibility is a privilege, not a right.
George doesn’t like surprises. He wants neat eggs, laid on time, preferably hashtagged and SEO-certified. Don’t forget. He wants you to always churn out content for “consistency” like a hamster on a wheel. He wants me to wake up chirping about productivity and gratitude. I show up feral, sipping burnt coffee, muttering about art and duct tape. Naturally, he hates me. And I on the other hand, find it entertaining.
I’m not here to “build slowly.”
I’m here to hit publish and let the universe cope.
When I upload an essay, George puffs up. “Is this optimized?” he demands. “Does it trend? Does it play well with the flock?”
I shrug. “It’s honest.”
Wrong answer.
George squawks. He struts across the feed, pecking at reach, clucking at engagement, dragging my post behind the barn where no one will find it. “This,” he says, “is not marketable content. It’s weird. You used the word ‘existential’ three times and no emojis.” “My minions are getting dysfunctional and confused where to put you in the bucket.”
“Exactly,” I reply.
See, George believes in performance. He wants his hens dancing for breadcrumbs — reels, shorts, clickbait, shiny feathers. He wants obedience disguised as creativity. I’m not built for that. I was raised on failure, sarcasm, and expired optimism. My art doesn’t sparkle; it limps, skips, jumps or even do a loop a loop.
But George can’t help himself. Every week, he circles back. He eyes my post like prey. “Maybe this time,” he thinks, “she’ll behave.”
Nah. I never do.
He flaps, he throttles reach, he screams into the void — but I keep writing. “Yeah, keep screaming George. You sound like my nephew throwing a tantrum.” And I just ignore it.
Because George doesn’t understand porch logic. He doesn’t get that rebellion is the rhythm. I drop essays on schedule not because I obey him, but because I like watching him lose his mind trying to predict me.
So every Tuesday, I log in, nod at the rooster, and upload something strange, sharp, and defiantly human.
George throws a tantrum.
I sip my coffee.
And somewhere in the chaos, the porch wins again.
Author’s Note
I dedicate this essay to every creator who’s ever been pecked into conformity by George and still posted anyway. May your feathers stay ruffled and your duct tape roll never run out. If you do, you know where to find me.