Iʼm out with some friends on a Friday night. Iʼve got a liver full of cheap liquor and gurgling tummy, and Iʼm on a vicious hunt for some cheesy meats. Thatʼs right. My drunken, majestic quest to find a fried chicken-turkey-kebab-stick-meat-taco- burrito doused in melted, hormone-filled curds and whey has commenced, and no one in this crew can stop me.

But not to worry, it can be a group effort. We could order a spicy platter at a C rated wing joint, fashion some bibs out of old plastic bags, and break a sweat as a team. Or how about a midnight barbecue picnic? We could steal a hunk of sopressata sausage and a leaky mozzarella cylinder from a 24 hour deli, lay down some glad bags in a dirty sandbox, and start a fire with a bodega match. If this meat-cheese party gets wild, we could duct tape turkey legs to our wrists and skinny dip in a jacuzzi full of boiling hot velveeta. Right? No? Sorry, Iʼm just jazzed at the prospect of entering an animal-dairy induced coma with friends… for once. I mean, I donʼt mind falling asleep in the bubble bath every night with a cutting board of lunchables on my chest, but sometimes, I do get lonely. Plus, Iʼve got salt packets and A 1 steak sauce in the front pocket of my Jansport, so let’s do this.

Most of my friends seem game for my “cheese your own meat-venture.” I know, I can’t believe I said it either… But then, the worst happens.

“That all sounds great…” says one of my friends, “but Kimberly and David are on their way, and theyʼre….vegans.”

My. Heart. Stops. (possibly literally, considering my diet).

Why are these alleged “Kimberly and David” VEGAN LOSERS trying to ruin my meat and cheese night? I mean, gosh, they’re not even here yet. They’re late! Classic vegans. Theyʼre probably biking over from some kind of pagan winter solstice ceremony. God, I bet they’re both 26 year old life coach feminists with instagram accounts dedicated to different acai bowl flavors. Kimberlyʼs probably a sober tarot reader who runs 12 step meetings outside a vegetable commune. Whatʼs her higher power, huh, a fair trade bucket of chia seeds? Oh yeah, I’m guessing Davidʼs a polyamorous bikram yoga instructor, DJ slash dog walker, right? Yeah, I already get that Kimberly and David have multi orgasmic tantric sex on locally grown flower beds while their rescue, formally abused rottweiler named Savasana, watches. I know thereʼs a Tibetan singing bowl in their shower, and I know David makes his own candle wax which he later pours onto Kimberlyʼs ankle tatoo of Ghandiʼs third eye. Ugh, Kimberly and David, those Kama sutra reading, kundalini feeling, explosive chakra sensing, vegan FREAKS canʼt accommodate MY MEAT AND CHEESE RELATED NEEDS? Well, cry me an river of kale ginger juice from Buddhaʼs oversized teat! Because you know what?

People who donʼt eat dairy are creepy affirmation doing, meditation loving monsters. People who donʼt eat animals are facade slinging, mantra chanting, reiki doing warlocks. Face it. People who donʼt center their entire identity and life around being chill enough to eat chemical filled sausages and digestively hindering milk products are… like, well, theyʼre like…. theyʼre honestly just like….vegans are seriously just…

REALLY COOL AND STRONG!

Okay. Hereʼs the truth. I relentlessly make fun of vegans because…

I’m not good enough to be one, and it’s killing me, literally.

Thatʼs right. I secretly think vegans are amazing. They’re fit. They’re disciplined. They enjoy sex and are good at stretching. They smell like healthy babies and I haven’t met a single one that isn’t a freaking vessel of joy and peace!

And then there’s me. My joints are inflamed. My sex drive is nonexistent. Digesting is a daily battle. My alcoholism has peaked and I’m two punches away from getting a free plate of spicy wings at Dallas BBQ. I can’t climb stairs or do yoga, and my armpits smell like the uncooked insides of a Thanksgiving turkey. Despite all that, I keep eating crap, and apparently, I can’t stop. So here I am, slowly dying, while Kimberly and David, and all of the other cool vegans, are thriving. God, I’m such a loser.

But man, when Kimberly and David get here, I’ll probably just play it cool. I’ll laugh at them. They’ll peacefully smile in return. I’ll crack some jokes about their glowing skin. They’ll let out wheatgrass scented, peaceful giggles. I’ll project all my insecurities onto them. They probably won’t even notice. Heck, they’ll probably be cool to go along with my meat cheese adventure. After all, they’ll have trail mix and coconut water in their bike baskets! God, they’re definitely going to be really cool, and I’m definitely going to feel really intimidated.

But whatever, now you know the truth. So hey, if you’re vegan and happen to hang out with me, I might make fun of you. But now you know that as I giggle at your almond butter squeeze packet, my organs are indeed, failing. As I make fun of your plant based biceps, my constipation is indeed, full on. That’s right vegans, I’m only making fun of you, because I secretly wish I WAS YOU.

And I never will be. I’m just. not. good. enough.