A vegan in a butcher shop

There is an old saying that humans are creatures of habit. We begin anew often and while it seems very difficult and foreign at the start we gradually start to breath again, taking in the scenery for what it is worth.

I hated the butcher shop for obvious reasons. Besides the stench of death and the unappealing bloody gore, the constant moral battle, I also felt like I had been betrayed by everyone around me, left alone to deal with death, overly emotional regarding my situation and completely at a loss to change my circumstance. Not a nice place to be for anyway, especially not someone like me. A Libra with a keen need of balance and harmony.

Let’s fast forward five months into the future, where I trip off to the butcher shop to work, even while a storm rages. I now appreciate living so close, close enough that I needn’t leave the house until fifteen minutes before my shift. I adore the gals there, all very unique and forthcoming.

At first I was in pain all the time, my body unaccustomed to hard work, partly from years of working in an office, and taking a year off to pursue other things. I thought of quitting every day, cried in the washroom, was in a total state of despair. I pulled my groin and hurt my knees. Then one day it just stopped and I noticed I had also lost weight and could sprint up and down the stairs. Sometimes I even hopped down the last two. Like a kid again. I would land and smile to myself, and whistle as I headed to the former hide and weep room.

I can make my own hours, switch shifts when I like, and have become one of the full timers which gives me power and authority over the young girls, and most importantly, I do not do shitty jobs, and they know it. They adore me, as though they realize I may just sneak out one day and never return. I am still above the place even if I am adjusted. The Bulgarian girls crack me up, being funny and bold, making nonsensical references with a raising of the eye brow and a nudge and wink. Lucy once said to me after being annoyed with one of the men there, “I am no sleeve to this poosey place.”

Well Lucy my friend, neither am I.