The Why-I-Am-a-Vegetarian Post
Because I've had one of those weeks in which people ask me why I'm a vegetarian (and gaze at me as though they've just noticed the second head sprouting from my shoulder) about ten million times and I have a long, rambling answer.
No, I do not have a PETA membership. I hate PETA; they are completely fucking insane. (If any of you heard about or followed the Pickton trial and then saw this, it's all you need to know.)
That doesn't mean it isn't an ethical thing, either. No, I'm not going to rage at anyone for eating a hamburger, but please don't rage at me for not eating a hamburger.
I've always loved animals in an insane way - I read books about them, hand-fed the squirrel in my parents' backyard, and spent most of my formative years trying to telepathically communicate with them. When I was about ten or so, I read a tragic and upsetting book called The Last Wolf of Ireland, which was about (you guessed it) the last wolf of Ireland. When the wolf died in the end, I became prone to crying fits for weeks.
Wolves are my favourite animals. The thought of Sarah Palin shooting them out of her helicopter makes me want to shoot her.
To be honest, I blame it on my meat-loving parents, who would never let me be a vegetarian when I was growing up and get it out of my system. So when I emerged from my suburban steak-loving cocoon, I was poised and ready to run away from the meat aisle as quickly as humanly possible.
In retrospect, I also blame it on my salt-of-the-earth, meat-loving, farmer grandparents, who let me keep a pet calf as a small child. Its mother had died, so I bottle fed it and named it Schnookums.
Thinking about the brown lump on your plate as Schnookums doesn't make it particularly appetising. And when you learn to associate the texture with other meats, they all lose their appeal. Quickly.
I've now reached the point where the smell of sizzling bacon makes me want to hurl. So, yes, I am pretty certain that I don't want to eat it.
And that is my rant.
No, I do not have a PETA membership. I hate PETA; they are completely fucking insane. (If any of you heard about or followed the Pickton trial and then saw this, it's all you need to know.)
That doesn't mean it isn't an ethical thing, either. No, I'm not going to rage at anyone for eating a hamburger, but please don't rage at me for not eating a hamburger.
I've always loved animals in an insane way - I read books about them, hand-fed the squirrel in my parents' backyard, and spent most of my formative years trying to telepathically communicate with them. When I was about ten or so, I read a tragic and upsetting book called The Last Wolf of Ireland, which was about (you guessed it) the last wolf of Ireland. When the wolf died in the end, I became prone to crying fits for weeks.
Wolves are my favourite animals. The thought of Sarah Palin shooting them out of her helicopter makes me want to shoot her.
To be honest, I blame it on my meat-loving parents, who would never let me be a vegetarian when I was growing up and get it out of my system. So when I emerged from my suburban steak-loving cocoon, I was poised and ready to run away from the meat aisle as quickly as humanly possible.
In retrospect, I also blame it on my salt-of-the-earth, meat-loving, farmer grandparents, who let me keep a pet calf as a small child. Its mother had died, so I bottle fed it and named it Schnookums.
Thinking about the brown lump on your plate as Schnookums doesn't make it particularly appetising. And when you learn to associate the texture with other meats, they all lose their appeal. Quickly.
I've now reached the point where the smell of sizzling bacon makes me want to hurl. So, yes, I am pretty certain that I don't want to eat it.
And that is my rant.