Craving Meat
It's not my fault, and certainly I would have liked it differently, but it seems I was not fated to stay a vegetarian. The option just keeps disappearing. It makes things hard.
But then I think, I think about the meat that I abandoned. And what about the foods I've never tried? There's a carnivorous world out there that I can explore. And suddenly I feel like, if there were a platter of lunch meat set before me and a salad, maybe I would take the meat.
It's a good thing no one is giving me that option.
Really, I can't wait to eat meat. I've missed it, and there are so many kinds that I haven't tried.
In other news, there's a girl I love who I want to run away with. I haven't seen her in over a year, I imagine. You can almost see the flames lick her hair and starved body when she moves. Her eyes are blue pools of intellect and impulse, and her legs are made for sprinting. The last time I saw her, she was changing her clothes in the middle of my street while the sprinklers went off on my front lawn and hissed that dawn was coming, and my fantasy of her appearing with her girlfriend would soon be over. She was living the dream that I wanted, to have ties to few and nothing material. To live no where but more completely than anyone else I knew. She had her lover by her side and her foot on the gas while she chased sunrises and work odd jobs. She was a musician and an artist and generous and poor and starving and filled with more books than I could read in the next ten years. She assigned a Dostoevsky to me. It's on my list.
But then I think, I think about the meat that I abandoned. And what about the foods I've never tried? There's a carnivorous world out there that I can explore. And suddenly I feel like, if there were a platter of lunch meat set before me and a salad, maybe I would take the meat.
It's a good thing no one is giving me that option.
Really, I can't wait to eat meat. I've missed it, and there are so many kinds that I haven't tried.
In other news, there's a girl I love who I want to run away with. I haven't seen her in over a year, I imagine. You can almost see the flames lick her hair and starved body when she moves. Her eyes are blue pools of intellect and impulse, and her legs are made for sprinting. The last time I saw her, she was changing her clothes in the middle of my street while the sprinklers went off on my front lawn and hissed that dawn was coming, and my fantasy of her appearing with her girlfriend would soon be over. She was living the dream that I wanted, to have ties to few and nothing material. To live no where but more completely than anyone else I knew. She had her lover by her side and her foot on the gas while she chased sunrises and work odd jobs. She was a musician and an artist and generous and poor and starving and filled with more books than I could read in the next ten years. She assigned a Dostoevsky to me. It's on my list.