To begin, let me make some clarifying statements. This essay is not really about the ducks. I never met any ducks—let’s say walking along the side of the road nor amidst a hiking trail nor down by the river—who in turn inspired such strong emotions. The ducks that I refer to in this essay were, honestly, pieces of said ducks, after they had been killed and plucked and broken into parts: breasts, legs, wings (and bones and fat) and were sourced from less than 100 miles from my home. Also, in this essay I am not mad at the ducks. They did not interfere with my life in any way, and in fact, these ducks brought me deliciousness, for which I always, always feel gratitude. And, although this may displease you, depending on your stance in relation to the human consumption of animals, I am not really mad on behalf...

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