Yes, I love animals.
No, that does not mean I will make love to them.
Consuming food breeds joy.
No seriously, few things more importantly won4derful (it’s a trend –
literal translation: for in the wonder) than the consumption of food exist in
this universe. The pure orgasmic feeling
of shoving pounds (or kilos – I don’t judge) of unadulterated, fatty food into
the pie hole simply outweighs all other troubles and won4ders in life.
However, for me, in the past year and a half, this
exhilarating feeling of ingestion has been littered with pricks and pines of
judgmental questioning.
I am a vegetarian – there, I said it. However, as many times as I step out of my
stereotypically veggie and fruit filled closet, humans seem to continuously
bombard me with questions about my eating habits – or as I like to call them,
my consumptiality.
Unlike my sexuality, I decided the boundaries of my
consumptiality. Nevertheless, these
decisions ooze of a personal, conscious stench.
A stench that I would have rather kept to myself, however unlike the
unadulterated, fatty food that I shove into the growing abyss that is my pie
hole, I cannot stuff my scented consumptiality into my bodily oblivion. Instead I must shroud myself in the odor and
engage in horrid interaction and conversation about the stink when other humans
lean into my scented, consuming, gravitational pull.
Once other humanoid life forms do fall in proximity, their
immediate, oh-so-basic question blurts out from their mouths in a ratty, high
pitched squeal. “Why did you decide to
not eat meat anymore?” Oh, the average manner in which they ask; they find it
affirming yet I despise its ignorant disrespectfulness. However, for me, the question does not reek
of offensiveness as much as the fashion by which it was pondered and
subsequently asked.
THE BASICNESS – IT PAINFULLY KILLS A PART OF MY SOUL. (which
if you think about it is even more offensive than any other action because one
of the reasons I am not eating meat is because I don’t want to kill anything
with a bunch of nerves, and the practice of not eating animals is the closest
lifestyle I can live while attempting to reach this unobtainable ideal; but,
then you go ahead and painfully kill part of me thus adding to my contribution
to the tangible pain in this universe and that just isn’t nice) Simply put, it hurts.
People, please, please splatter and soak your questioning in
simple, appropriate creativity. Ask, in
a non-squealing voice, “So, does meat give you the shits?” That’s funny – I would actually laugh. But don’t go overboard.
I have actually had people smugly come up to me and crappily
proclaim, “So, do you not eat animals because you have like a weird thing for
them – you know, bestiality is wrong…”
NO, I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.
WHO THE LA-DEE-FRICKEN-DAH KNEW THAT.
Wait, yeah, I stopped eating animals because I felt bad
about digesting the egg-provider of the dove I was going to make love to that
night. I simply could not stroke her
talons (so what, I can have a talon fetish – JOKING, Jesus, people, take a
joke) while picturing the juicy tenderness of her mother’s wings. It was too much, so instead I just told my
dovey (get it) that I wasn’t in the mood because I had seen a dove killed
earlier in the morning. When she fell
asleep, I wrote a poem about my angst and the first-world problems that arose
from my engagement in both bestiality and vegetarianism. That very limerick styled poem goes as
follows:
I
really want to find some love.
So
I must get a messenger dove,
To
send this here letter,
That’ll
be read to get her,
Kidding
– come bird, I speak of.
Oh to be a vegetarian.
