On true love

I bought a bag of meat, recently. To be more specific, I purchased enough meat products to fill and engorge a Price Chopper shopping bag. With my personal funds barely in the black, I blissfully blew about $30 on sausage, hamburger, steak, and chicken.

There is a currently a package of "pan frying" steak defrosting in a steel bowl full of water.

I love meat. I love it so much I want to kill you and eat you.

I like the taste. I like the texture. I like the feeling of the protein making me stronger. I like the blood. I am not a person that needs cognitive distance from what he is eating. If you bring me a cow and a railroad spike, I will descend upon it with unrelenting wrath and voracious hunger, reveling in the slaughter because brutality is the finest spice there is.

If I could, I would eat steak every day until my arteries clogged up and I died. At that point, I pray that someone would have the decency to eat me. I will try to die tender.

Tragically, my apartment does not have any means of grilling at this time. That's why I'm buying "pan frying" steak (I don't have any idea what the hell it is or how the hell it'll taste) and pre-packaged burgers (they claim to be microwaveable, so they must be friable). The sausage and chicken are better fried up with pasta anyway. Nothing fuels you up better after a trip to the gym or a good session of karate.

Anyway . . . was I going somewhere with this?

I don't think so. That's all I wanted to say. I fucking love meat.


I would eventually like to eat a vegan.