You will never be a real Man. You have no Buns, you have no Chicken, you have no Pickles. You are a Broken man twisted by drugs and surgery into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people Eat Chick-Fil-A without you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your Lack of Chick-Fil-A behind closed doors.

Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even trannies who “Eat Chick-Fil-A” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your Lack of Chick-Fil-A is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a Chick-Fil-A Lover home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected Domicile. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll take an Uber, Ride to Chick-Fil-A, Go up to the counter, and plunge into the warm embrace of a Chick-Fil-A Deluxe, with Pepper Jack cheese, No tomato. Your parents will find you, relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Chick-Fil-A Hater is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably bare of Chick-Fil-A. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.