Premature Evisceration

By 6PM last evening my stomach had entered a state of pain somewhere between death and North Dakota. The gas that followed was enough to startle our three legged dog, and probably increased my rent by at least a few Jacksons. My roommates no longer regard me as a female, I think I have been accepted to several local frat houses, and an entirely new, industrial strength model of a nose plug had to be crafted for the 97214 area code.

This kind of intestinal distress is new to me. I am the girl who grew up thinking that the seven second rule was the seven minute rule, that mold only meant that whatever it covered was just evidently jealous of peaches and kiwis, and that "refrigerate after opening" was optional at best. I could drink one third of my body weight in distilled spirits and not feel so much as a tickle in my gut unless it was coming from someone else's body part touching it. Vomiting, shitting, farting are all gerunds that, luckily, I don't use very often unless sarcastically critiquing a film starring Jessica Alba. There had to be a reason why my intestines felt like they were being used by some knitting hipster as yarn.

Then it dawned on me. I have already gone vegan. Early.

The last time I consumed anything that barked, breathed, spit, or pissed was...search me. Part of the benefit of being fired has been a sudden refusal to eat anything that I don't have in my pantry, meaning that the only possibly non-vegan item of consumption would have been whole-wheat bread. Other than that it's been all dried fruit, apple butter, cereal gruel made with water, Amy's brand (vegan) soup and Diet Pepsi. Basically I'm learning that if there were an apocalypse I would be a PETA poster child as the world burned. Think I Am Legend only with more soy and fewer CGI zombies.

Still, this conclusion didn't solve the fiery sharp subtraction problem taking place behind my bellybutton. But at least I knew why. Next question, is Pepto-Bismol vegan?

And why the hell am I doing this again?

While cramping I came to believe that I have to delve deeper into the reasoning as to why a human being would willingly volunteer for this variety of torture that vacillates between explosive, painful flatulence and dramatic drops in blood-sugar that create a nearly homicidal need to tear through Fred Meyer, mouth stretched wide. For assistance I have begun asking my vegan chums to answer a few burning questions. Pun fucking intended. Stay tuned.

"There's a hunger inside me..."

After a brief absence due to an unplanned vacation from work known as sudden unemployment on account of being fired, I return to my foray into being a vegan. This is a little bit more dire and uncomfortable now being that I have no fucking clue if I will be able to eat - anything - by the end of April. Allow me to take a moment to whore myself and say, if you are looking for someone to write or edit anything for you for a nominal fee I’m your girl. Give me work, which will in turn pay for vegan food, which will in turn allow me to continue blogging. Jesus Christ, that is the most pathetic sentence I think I’ve ever written.

In the past few feverish days a dialog has followed me. It has gone as follows:
“Whatchya eating?” (Usually this is said to someone eating something that I’m hoping they will share with me because, as previously noted, I am now out of work and poor.)

Cute girl at coffee shop with labret piercing: “Cosmic sandwich. Meat free. Not so good.” She pushes away her plate in disgust.

Kid with bike: “Dunno. But it’s vegan.” He opens his mouth, showing me a pasty mass of brown goop on his tongue. Delightful.

Roommate: “Vegan muffin. Tastes like shit.” (He proceeded to throw it in the trash where I had to restrain myself from diving after it. It landed in a pile of old coffee grinds, over a banana peel, next to a drained six pack of PBR. We‘re not at that level of hunger. Yet.)

I would like to point out, as my mother did when I was little, that there are people starving...The rest of her sentence went “in Africa,” while mine goes something like, “on Yamhill Street, grey house, the one with the organ on the lawn.” I can imagine at the homeless shelter across the street from where I was fired, they’re handing out sandwiches and one unshowered, impoverished straggler asks, “Is it vegan?”

If you’d like to see my struggle to get work in addition to my struggle to go vegan check out Jerk Ethic. It’s like watching the baby seals, pandas, and whales win. http://jerkethic.tumblr.com/
I’m off to eat a can of meat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free soup. It’s organic, too.