Meat.

Ah yes, that supposedly-gray stuff jiggling about in my cranium. Brainy meaty goodness. The metaphorical muscle that can always be metaphorically flexed, no matter the shape of the body encasing it. Only lately I feel like, while still delicious zombie fodder, my brain has become flaccid. Intellectually atrophied. Boring.

So, this is me, shirking actual academically intellectual pursuits in favor of poking my slumpy brain with a stick, in the hopes that I can at least moosh it into fun shapes from time to time to create a comforting illusion of flexion.

Only I'm sorta tired right now, and I don't have a stick handy, so maybe I'll start the poking next time. This time, I think I'll just talk about meat.

I am a meat hypocrite.

More and more, when I go to the grocery, the slabs o’ meat just creep me out. They look more analogous to people-parts than they used to…hey, if I peeled MY shoulder it would look just like that roast! Or they look more…real. Wow, that is an actual cross-section of a dead thing’s body! I can see the saw marks in the bone! I’m not the squeamish type, either, so I find it intriguing that my brain should choose to toy with me like this. Is this some dawning ethical realization? Or was I bitten by a hippie? Head trauma? I dunno. I DO know that fish do not creep me out, and I am not prepared to live in a world without sushi. Or cheese. So I am down with fish and crustacean slaughter and udder exploitation. And I’m pretty sure that under the right circumstances I would still be a bacon whore (said circumstances being the presence of bacon). A little too hypocritical to claim late-blooming ethics. And I have no visible bite wounds or head lumps, so I guess it is just…me. Cool—fewer rules that way. So I am, at the moment, a pescetarian—no land-meat, but I eat sea kittens* and dairy. And duh, vegetables. Die, vegetables, die!

In a burst of bonus hypocrisy, this weekend I am going with the Spouse to Chicago to shamelessly eat at Hot Doug’s—The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. Hey—my mutation, my exceptions to my rules.

Does any of this mean anything? Is my pescetarianism like the bisexuality of my food orientation? And if so, is it the real thing or a comfortable stepping stone to ease my transition into vegetarianism?

I dunno. But hey, my blog is no longer naked, so that's something.

Now I gotta go find me a stick.

Peace out.

*What dumbfuckery is this, you ask? Well, Peta wants you to call fish "sea kittens" so as to render them less savory and more cuddly-cute. Seriously--I couldn't make this shit up.