(Ed. note: 2nd version, due to unintentional page refresh lacking ctrl+c)
Excuse me, beefatarians, this may pain you: i don't beef. Chateaubriand, double-doubles, kalbi, french onion soup, anything that smacks of bovine, I just don't eat. And I haven't eaten for ... nearly two decades. Until mama stepped in. Mama lovingly cooks beef dishes, ones that Wilbur gives thumbs up to, and expects her daughter/patient to eat every bite. The horror. I chug down each chewy juicy meatiness, rather than let it macerate on my taste buds. But I swallow it like it was my pride. I acted rude, boorish, mercilessly disdainful, and it wasn't even successful! I still have to eat beef. Why? Because the people I love do everything in their power to care for me, I show my appreciation: I suppress the gag reflex and open my palate with a grateful heart.
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