I hate salads and the people who enjoy them. Eating a salad makes me die a little inside and advocates for salads make me angry. Violent, even. You know who I’m talking about–those people who when asked what they’re having for lunch smilingly look over and say “A salad! Mmmm!”. Bitch, please. You’re not fooling me. You don’t like that salad–unless it’s a Greek salad from Basili’s in Richmond (LIFE CHANGING) or unless it’s a salad that’s covering John Stamo’s body. Now THAT’S the only salad I can enjoy.
People who like salads (or pretend to) think they’ve got some sort of superiority going on. As if their salad is somehow better than my classic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As if it’s healthier and as soon as the pieces of lettuce hit their lips, they magically evolve into a better version of themselves and/or Gisele Bundchen. As if chewing those vegetables is giving them golden flowing locks and a Swedish model’s gams. And there they sit, munching, spearing lettuce, and pretending to look satisfied. Well, nothing gets past me. I know what you’re trying to do . I’ve watched enough of the Kardashians to know what’s going on. And I’m here to let you all know, I’m not impressed. Go ahead, munch it up, but who’s getting the last laugh? ME. Because you’ll be hungry in 2.9 seconds, while my hearty and oh-so- adult meal of pb&j will keep me full until it’s snack time. Which will be every hour on the hour, but that’s not the point.
And don’t tell me “Oh, but it’s interesting! There are colorful nuts and cheeses and berries!” Get away from me right now. You take that talk over to PETA & Southern Living magazine. Why would you ever describe food as interesting unless you’re trying to make your aunt feel better about her puke consistency Thanksgiving spread? Ask me if I care if my food is colorful. I don’t. I care about how good it tastes and how much of it I can eat without coming off as the world’s newest human garbage disposal and/or having a heart attack.
Ok. I’m lying. But I’m not lying as much as this woman is:
Whatever, maybe this means I’m not a foodie. I don’t cook. And making a salad is toeing the line of cooking. I eat. That’s been my main goal in life ever since my mother decided to pop me out a couple months early. So rude. As I lay there in the incubator for months, all I had to really do was think of my next easy meal which would be shoved in my face at my every beck and scream. And it’s stuck with me my whole life. So naturally, I’m not going to waste my time making or eating rabbit food (unless it’s Basili’s salad) when I’ve been trained since day one to go for what’s going to keep me alive and what’s easiest.
Don’t get me wrong–I still like to eat healthy. I just prefer to eat the healthy things that keep me full and feeling like a carnivore. Like these seared scallops over wilted spinach. Or this. Kidding. Maybe.
That being said, we can still be friends if you eat salads. Just don’t talk about them or eat them in front of me. Or I won’t hesitate to act in this manner: