P: You love me I'm not your type

So I thought I'd pay the blog a visit to get a few things out of the ole sack-of-topics.

i'm coming to terms with the fact that I am not a conventionally compassionate human being. I read an article on vegetarianism the other day that would have been very disturbing to your average reader -- that is, a pro-vegetarian article that severely villified the meat industry and exposed its evil ways -- but left me wanting a cheeseburger. I don't know, maybe I came to terms long ago with the fact that the meat business is not a pleasant one. The article bemoaned that most of the cows were not properly sedated when killed. Well, how do you think they got meat in years past? They certainly didn't sing them lullabyes. I just happen to believe that the consumption of meat is a longstanding facet of human nature that needs not be changed. All things in moderation.

There are worse things in the world... like smoking.

No disrespect to my vegetarian readership (which I'm sure, proportionately with my gynormous following anyway, is vast,) but I don't think I could date a girl who made it a point of morality not to eat meat, because we wouldn't have anything in common. Not that eating meat is my entire personality, but it seems like NOT eating meat would be her entire personality. Health, I suppose I can get behind, because hey, who doesn't like health? And a lack of taste for it would be perplexing, but acceptable. Of the last three girls I've been, uh, associated with*, one didn't eat meat for that last reason (apparently, although I could swear I saw her eyeball a meatball sandwich in Subway once,) one kept halal, and the other, well, let's not even get into.

*I don't say "dated," because I only technically dated one of them -- my history with the opposite sex is a well-recorded series of disasters.

I have a number of vegetarian friends and acquaintences. I like them, but none have ever successfully convinced me, most wouldn't try (those are the ones who know me well enough.)

My other moment of deep compassion (and that'd be sarcasm,) was earlier today when, studying the suicide of writer Daniel Jones, I just rolled my eyes, exhausted at the writer's lengthy, tedious dissertation on his death. Yeah, that makes me look real sympathetic. Call me unattentive, but the 30-plus-page diatribe really wasn't working for me. I took no interest in the assignment and, I'm sure my memoir teacher would be glad (again, in the sarcastic sense,) to hear I really phoned in my response. Fortunately, I have done my best to hide this blog's existence from everyone, and for the most part succeeded.

Anyway clearly there is something wrong with me. My fingers are giving me the "you're typing too much" tingle. It's been a long weekend. After 14 losing coffees, I finally one a free one at roll up the rim to win... I am such a sucker for promotion. I drank way more coke when they had "under the cap" prizes -- even though I prefer cans for pop-drinking. So yeah, I'm psyched for the free coffee. Maybe I'll even wait in line at Sheridan for it for forty minutes (and then, being the Sherida Tim's, it'll be terrible and not worth it at all.)

It's going to rain tomorrow... ech.

Well keep on rockin'
-Scotto