These past few weeks, I have been asked why I am vegan more often than the preceding months. So, for anyone who is curious why I am such a vagina, or who is considering becoming vegan his or herself, here is the long version. There will be no abridged version; I also refuse to supply annotation. Sorry, I am lazy.
My entire life, I have loved animals; in many cases, every bit as much as humans. Sometimes even more (no greed, hate, prejudice, ignorance…the list goes on and on and is the topic for another blog or poem, etc.). I used to yearn to play with all the little animals that ran through my backyard and the woods on my family farm. Yes, I am a bit of a hippie. I still imagine having a little squirrel to sit on my shoulder; I would feed the little guy walnuts from my pocket while going about my entire daily routine. But back to the subject at hand; I used to wish and wish animals would know that I meant them no harm. I wanted them to all come up to me, allow me to feed them, care for them, play with them, etc. The one thing that always ragged on me was the fact that I would, without fail, indulge in their flesh daily. How could I expect them to trust me when I would habitually consume them?
There were always things I would refuse to eat. One time, my family served rabbit. I cried and cried and would not take a bite, saying they killed Bugs Bunny. I would never eat squirrel, since they have long been one of my favorite animals. Dogs and cats were of course out due to me owning them and societal norms. Horses always seemed a cruel thing to eat; equines fine, bovines mine. I used to love eating cow, but never would eat a horse, since obviously they are much cooler. Hindus don’t know what they are talking about. I fished my whole life. Fish never really bothered me since I was always told they had no feelings, physical or mental. They never really appeared to have any sort of personality, either.
After years of fishing, I “came of age” to join in the great hunt. The first thing I ever hunted was either geese or doves, I am not sure which. Before I shot my first goose, my dad winged one and I finished it off by blowing its head off. It made noises from its stump of a neck for a short time, much like the witch on Evil Dead 2 after her head was severed. My first goose happened to be a clean kill and there was no need for a second shot. Another time, later, when I was finishing one off, I loaded a smaller shell from a box we were trying to use up; when I shot it in the face, it caved in, the goose died instantly. Those kills didn’t bother me so much; I guess geese just didn’t seem to have a personality.
The turning point in hunting started with my first widely successful dove hunt. My dad and I were hitting doves left and right. I winged a couple. See, this is the fucked-up part; to finish off a dove, you cannot shoot it. To shoot a dove again is to destroy the meat. The best way to finish off the dove and preserve the meat is to wrap your index finger around the head and give a quick, firm snap of the wrist and elbow.
After I winged the first one, I went out in the field to retrieve it. It was huddled on the ground, scared, obviously. It was making that sad and beautiful noise doves make when they are threatened or trying to get attention. As I approached the bird, it started scurrying away. I chased it down grab its head, and with tears in my eyes and a failing, unwilling grip, gave a sharp snap. It hit the ground with a thud and started convulsing violently, still making noise. At this point, I was more or less crying. I steeled myself, said I had to do it for the dove at this point, grabbed it with all my strength, crushed its head and tore it off with a snap.
The second one went in a similar way, but I made damn sure of success in the fatality this time. I didn’t even want to eat the meat after this, though I forced it down so the dove would not have to die for naught.
Another experience which made me think about becoming a vegetarian was at my old job. I worked at a hotel as a maintenance guy, cleaning bathrooms, fixing little things and helping with odds and ends. One day, my boss asked if I would kill a mouse for him, since he did not want to. Seeing as it was my job, I set out to find the trap. It was a fucking glue trap. He instructed me to put a piece of plastic wrap over the mouse, so it would “not have to suffer.” Well, being a pussy, I did as instructed. It writhed and squealed, dying a horrid death. I went to the bathroom and cried like I hadn’t in a long time. Later, mouse torture 102 came about; same instructions as last time. This time, though, I refused. My boss got all pissed and screamed and such, saying he would do it. He is the most hot-headed and crazy son-of-a-bitch I have ever had the entertaining and scary privilege to meet. Thankfully, since I am so calm, he took a liking to me. But I digress; he never killed the mouse, just locked himself in his office. So I went to the mouse and tried to pry it from the glue trap to no avail. I just ended up tearing its skin and causing it to squeal. So in anger and hopelessness, I dropped it to the concrete and crushed it with my foot; this one would at least have a quick death.
A couple of years went by, the pangs of guilt continued; I became more depressed, more portly. I would constantly think about suicide. I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t worth anything. To make up for how much of a piece of shit I was, I resorted to masochism. Yes, this is how all the whipping stuff started you guys, and is why it no longer happens anymore. It evolved over time, and when I started to feel sad about almost anything, I would bust out the ol’ 5V and start wailing away on my back, legs, arms, whatever needed the pain. Eventually I started some cutting and burning. I still have a few minor burn scars from that time.
Finally, the summer before last, I decided I was going to lose weight and stop eating meat. I lost about twenty pounds and cut back a little bit on my meat over-consumption. Then, I broke my hand. I felt like such a dumb fuck. That was the same summer I went to flashback weekend and saw Bruce Campbell, one of the coolest mother fuckers ever to trod on this Earth. He called me a dumb ass when I informed him as to how I broke my hand by punching the not-so-pliable floor. I also saw a badass play there. At this point in my life, I was cold, nihilistic and jaded.
Right around this time, there was something that happened which caused me to begin to care again, something that gave life meaning. It was a sort-of Rene Descartes, I think, therefore I am, thing; it took root at that basic of a level. I am not going to go into detail about what it was, because this it too private a thing for me to feel comfortable about telling. Those whom I wish to know what it was already know.
Then, as I began to care about shit, I gave up red meat and pork; I haven’t eaten it since. The weight began to shed like no other. It was actually a very unhealthy rate; 105 pounds in less than eight months. Eventually, after a few failed attempts, I became a vegetarian. I finally managed to keep a weight lifting routine; something I have always loved, but just never managed to keep on the routine for.
A while after becoming vegetarian, the masochism started to wither away. It stopped
completely around last May. Life gathered more and more meaning all of the time. I became more educated on the treatment of farm animals, the implications of a vegan diet.
One day, while researching some stuff online, I found a statistic from the U.N. I had heard for some time that plants consumed by people directly is much more efficient than feeding plants to animals and animals to us. According to the U.N., if everyone ate a 100 percent plant-based diet, there would be enough food for the entire world to be fed. I became vegan on-the-spot, never looking back.
Now, I later realized it is not like much of that extra food would go to feed the hungry. In fact, production of food would likely go down and there wouldn’t be that much excess. Regardless, a few more people would still be fed. The other benefits I later found out are: decreased topsoil erosion, pollution and greater sustainability, among many others.
I knew for quite some time that chickens and cows died and were treated maliciously on factory farms, but I always chose to ignore it. I am so elated now that I have chosen to become a vegan. My conscience is finally clear. Almost. Some things still die as a result of me, but I am doing all that is within human ability to keep suffering to a minimum.
I am not a militant vegan and I regard diet choice as just that: a choice. Whatever works for you personally is great and you should continue to pursue it. Each person is unique and must go about everything in their lives in a different way. Do not become a vegan or vegetarian because you feel pressured to; that more or less defeats the purpose of becoming one. If you feel it is right for you, go for it and more power to you. You should never do something, like something, or become something just because it is the socially accepted norm, whether in the mainstream culture or some counter or anti-culture. Your choices are yours to make and all such sayings.
I hope this is enough of an explanation to those who are wondering what is with all the plants. If not, too bad, I am done with this; it is long as fuck as it stands. If there is any clarification needed on anything or any additional questions, you may address them to me this weekend, ‘cause I am headed back home, mother fuckers! Damn I miss my dogs…and my human family, of course.
