It was a massacre. Stabbing and slicing and biting. “My god!” I exclaimed. “What have you done?” She looked up from her breakfast, knife and fork in hand, a bit of animal flesh still stuck in her teeth, and asked, “What?” “The horror!” I wailed, averting my eyes. She just shrugged and kept eating her eggs over-medium with sausage as I wept silently for the chickens and the pigs. I thought about calling the cops, but they asked me to stop doing that.
Food is a very personal choice, unless you’re a veal calf. Pandas only eat bamboo, and it barely nourishes them. I knew this guy named Alvin that only ate pancakes. I heard about a girl that eats chalk. At a business convention once they told me that at Hewlett Packard they eat their children. The speaker, in his slick suit and expensive hair, seemed to think this was a good thing, though it sounds so awful. You are what you eat, after all. Chick next to me is eating a banana and drinking a mocha, like this is her own damn banana world or something, like she’s the queen of mocha and whatnot. “What’s eating you?” he asked me as I drove silently, not looking away from the road ahead. I shrugged slightly, but he didn’t hear it.
If I had to hunt for my own food I’d starve. I’d start to eat things that were lying around nearby, hairbrushes and staplers and remote controls and telephones and such. I’m sure I wouldn’t survive for very long. Then people nearby would eat me. “He tastes like office equipment,” they would say, but I wouldn’t hear them.
Hello, friends. I trust you’re well.
Later. Love.
