I want to give up meat. I really do. I collect the reasons to do it like coupons that expire in an envelope stuck to the fridge. I know the whole list: the health of the animals, we could produce much more food with the energy it takes to raise animals, it's not nice, on and on.
But here's the thing: I was raised in the south. When I go home for Thanksgiving, the only vegetarian item on the sideboard is the collards, but only if you pick out the bits of ham hock yourself. Even my mom, who is a doctor and should know better, thinks that chicken broth is ok for a vegetarian dish, as long as there are no visible meat chunks. Well prepared fried chicken makes me cum just a little bit. My constant search is to find a hamburger that will make me stop craving hamburgers.
I would have to be one of those vegetarians who can't make exceptions, ever. Any allowance for grey area, any bit of backsliding, and in under three hours, you'd find me doing gravy shots under a stool at Usual Suspects with a glazed look in my eye. That's how I'd have to quit smoking too. "One more won't hurt" is one of those comforting fantasies I'm prone toward.
The other Most Popular Fantasy is moving out to my grandmother's berry farm and learning the family business so I can Carry On The Legacy. I see myself turning the farm organic, hiring young, idealistic hippy interns from Asheville, and finding a beautiful cowgirl to settle down with me. Grandma could really use the help, and no one's sure what to do with the farm once she can't live there anymore, so there's a need. The one kink in that plan is my complete and utter lack of enthusiasm when faced with actual farming work. When we were supposed to go out and pick berries as kids, I was much more likely to strip down and go swimming in the pond. Faced with the chore of mowing and weeding 150 acres, I have to say I would have my car packed for Asheville before the tractor had collected its breath to form its first stuttered cough.
These two visions of myself feel like they come from the same unrealistic place, which is odd, considering how easy quitting smoking and meat should be compared to Running A Fucking Farm. I'm gonna do it.
So here it is: No more meat, no more cigarettes. No more coffee. All at the same time. It's not allowed. The End. Unless my gramma made it.
Not that that’s any different from usual. Except for smoking; I won’t make fun of you for quitting that. It’s stinky and makes me sneezy. Just don’t expect me to eat tofu when I come visit.
