I was there because I am the worst vegetarian of all time. I call myself a “baconetarian” every once in a while to crack a joke to friends when they hear me order pizza with bacon on it, and afterward I explain why I just can’t seem to give up that delicious, succulent bacon. Bacon’s the only thing that used to have legs I can stand to eat. My partner and I eat tuna and haddock also, it’s true; but the word “pescatarian” sounds even worse than baconetarian if you ask me so we don’t call ourselves that. He doesn’t eat bacon, and he doesn’t judge me for it, but I’m sure somewhere out there in the world a vegan is shuddering and she doesn’t know why.
I waited in line behind a few people to order my greasy BLT and an order of oil-covered french fries that are probably still inside my digestive tract. The rhythm of the slush puppy machine nearby was mesmerizing, the white lines churning within a sea of semi-frozen red ice and liquid cherry diabetes. Food guilt would have overpowered me if I wasn’t so close to the register at that moment, if the man in front of me hadn’t accidentally brushed me and turned around to say sorry when he moved to the line of people close by who waited for their food to be served, and the lady behind the counter with the muffin top and the T-shirt that was tied into a knot at her belly button hadn’t asked me, “What are you getting?”
I ordered the BLT with fries.
[ c. e. p. ]