Life Is A Bowl of Patties

Over dinner tonight I experienced a mini-Mommie Dearest-esque stand off. Lifting my burger to my mouth (already half-eaten), when I saw the blood ooze out, I could handle no more and refused to have another bite. At first I was the victim of scoffs and the like, but when no one else would eat it, I figured I had won the battle. Or so I thought.

Immediately after I ceased eating the nausea set in. I think it was mostly psychological nausea, not able to take my mind off the blood. A couple of times I felt the words “That’s it, I’m a vegetarian!” almost spout from my mouth but the thought of chicken soup held them tightly in. I made myself a cup of tea and settled down when the nausea began to fade. Then the gut pains started in. Twisting in turning as my stomach tried to work out just why there was a bit of still-alive cow in me, I was hoping my body would reject it and I could move onto devouring more of my freakishly thick-skinned Old Gold chocolate rabbit (the only kind of animal worth eating raw). Soon enough (with the aid of some sips of tea), I felt the urge and rushed off to the bathroom.

I must now explain that when I’m in the middle of a task, I hate wasting time, so I move around the house quite quickly, relying on intuition to take me there safely. Tonight was no different as I roared into the bathroom and flew back the seat lid. Bending down to take my rightful place, the moment skin touched the surface I lept into the air much in the manner someone’s hand flies back when they touch a hot saucepan.

Looking down I realised what I had done. In lifting up the lid, I had also lifted up the seat and it had been the cold, suspicious grimace of the ceramic bowl that had greeted me in that moment of horrror.

You’ll all be glad to know that I was able to say farewell to that bloodied burger, which is good as it made more room for hoppy the dark rabbit.