I hold minority opinions on just about everything—how I live, eat, speak, dress—you name it, it probably rubs the mainstream the wrong way. And frankly, most people would rather gargle gravel than copy my lifestyle by choice. But here’s the thing: I don’t force it on anyone, and I sure as hell don’t expect applause for marching to my own beat. Live however you want—just don’t mess with my lane, and we’ll get along just fine. That’s a pretty damn low bar for coexistence. One of my closest friends has been a vegetarian since before it was trendy, back when tofu still came with a side of ridicule. He’s never preached at me, never guilt-tripped my steak, and when we eat together, what’s on his plate is his business—just like mine is mine. Simple, adult mutual respect. But this new breed of “vegan”? They’re not vegans—they’re moral exhibitionists high on dopamine hits and internet clout, weaponizing carrots for likes. If public baby-murdering went viral tomorrow, some of these click-hungry ghouls would sharpen the knives and start vlogging. It’s not about ethics—it’s about spectacle.
