Let’s clear something up. Again.
I am not a chicken.
I do not use a chainsaw.
Chainsaw is my name.
This shouldn’t be complicated, yet here we are.
Somewhere along the way, people decided that a name must be a job description, a lifestyle choice, or a prop inventory. If your name is Jack, you must climb beanstalks. If your name is Hunter, you are legally required to own camouflage. And if your name is Chainsaw, well—obviously—you must be revving something loud while flapping.
No.
I’m a human being. I walk upright. I pay bills. I have thoughts, memories, frustrations, and a perfectly ordinary relationship with power tools, which is to say: cautious, respectful, and limited to when they are actually needed.
The chicken thing is even more puzzling. I don’t peck. I don’t cluck. I don’t lay eggs. I don’t roost. I don’t wake up thinking about corn. If anything, I wake up thinking about coffee and whether the world has become more committed to misunderstanding than listening.
This isn’t a branding issue. This isn’t performance art. This isn’t a metaphor that got out of hand. It’s a name. Just a name. People used to understand that names didn’t come with mandatory accessories.
Once upon a time, you could be called something unusual and the response was curiosity, not assumption. Someone might ask, “How’d you get that name?” instead of immediately inventing an entire backstory involving poultry and landscaping equipment.
I’m not angry. I’m just tired of explaining the obvious.
You can call me Chainsaw. That’s fine. That’s correct.
Just don’t hand me a chainsaw and expect a demonstration.
And please—stop looking around for feathers.
There aren’t any.