What up, internet world.
I’d love to say I’ve been on Wall Street doing my civic duty to society and being a proper anarchist for the past few weeks, but truthfully I’ve just been working hard.
I’ve also been in an especially hatery mood lately, which has resulted in stomach aches and tears aplenty, so I’ve not been gracing you with my presence as much as I’d like, in order to spare you from my many lists of things I find stupid and thus lose entire days of my life to because I’m so angry about them. It’s mostly best if I just sequester myself when I get like that. As I get older, my ever-present companion of white-hot pure distilled rage seems to be doing me less and less good.
So, I’m taking my little steps to dial it back a little which, in a lot of ways, is a shame because I’m so amazing at it. (How many times have I written these words on this blog? Six hundred? Fifty thousand?)
Two quick examples. First there was this really, really, wonderfully, awfully terrible behavior of mine on the Facebook page of a local farm of idiot hippie kids who are having a pig roast at the end of October. I’ve been indulging in all sorts of truly hideous behavior over there. I’ve really been enjoying it.
Some people do cocaine. I call murderers murderers. Could be better, could be worse.
(I’ve since deleted the comment because I think the person asking might have been a kid. The last thing I need is some assholey parents getting all up in my grill for calling their murdering kid a murderer. And I was calling the idiot hippie farmers murderers, anyway.)
Then the other day at the farmer’s market I had the following little interaction:
Annoying lady, talking to my farmer friend Jay (Jay kills animals as part of his job, but he also grows great vegetables, so what can ya do): “So I was in a meat CSA and I had 1/8 of a cow reserved but it fell through, so will you have any beef soon?”
Jay said something or other about hogs or beef or I know not what.
“OK, I hope you have beef because….”
I’m standing there with my fucking kale and my fucking leeks and I want to get to work and make fucking kale and leek soup (and open the shop or whatevs, but I was really craving a green soup that morning. With some potatoes and lots of garlic, maybe pureed a little [or, as we say in the shop, “whizzed,” as in: “Did you whiz the peppermint patty filling until it was completely smooth? If not, whiz the shit out of it!”], maybe some roasted red peppers, some vinegar, lots of olive oil and hot pepper flakes–can you feel me?), and I do not like:
And annoying meat bitch is droning on and on and I am experiencing five simultaneously annoying things, and it’s getting old. Meat lady and Jay and I are the only people in the booth. The kale is shriveling in my hands by the moment.
“So meat meat meat meat…I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t find some good local beef…”
“WELL YOU COULD STOP EATING DEAD THINGS MAYBE. MOVING ALONG! JAY, I JUST HAVE SOME KALE AND LEEKS HERE.”
Guess who said that?
Meat bitch gave me some fucking shit about how it’s “not an option for me not to eat meat because my doctor said I need lots of protein” and I calmly and gracefully retorted with “DON’T MAKE ME FUCKING LAUGH.”
Jay, meanwhile, was rather tickled by the whole thing, as farmers tend to be tickled by anything out of the ordinary like that. He shoved her aside (as all trash deserves to be shoved aside) and told me I’d get a kick out of a freebie farmer magazine he got that sported a back cover ad for a tiny little plane farmers should buy in order to more throughly douse their fields with chemicals. We laughed over the awfulness of it, I paid for my greens, and meat trash bitch was STILL there wanting to talk to Jay about dead things, so as I left I said a jaunty “Have a good week, Jay!” to Jay and, under my breath I said to meat bitch, “NOT YOU.” in a wonderfully hateful whisper.
Then Jacob arrived with the sourdough loaf he’d been buying, and I pretended butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth as we made our way to work. (as of course, it wouldn’t, as it wouldn’t make its way past my lips, naturally.)
The whole encounter is pretty much a piece with disgusting little escapades I pull all the time. They give me something to live for in my bleakest moments, because torturing meat eaters and teaching them how awful they are is pleasing to me on deep levels, but they are, ah, not exactly the best ways to advocate for a peaceful vegetarian diet. Even worse, I own a business exactly two minutes away from the farmer’s market, and what if trash meat bitch had come into the shop?
Truly, I can’t be pulling this crap anymore.
So I’m embarking on yet another campaign to Deal With My Rage and it will probably fail but at least it will work for a while and there we are.
As Jacob puts it, “The problem is that you say you want to deal with it, but secretly you love it and love being in it, so you sort of hold it close to you.” As usual, he’s right.
So that’s me.