Oh this blasted sun won’t let up. There’s not even a cloud in sight to give me a break from its incessant heat. If only I weren’t so tall, then maybe my head wouldn’t be halfway to Mars and my baby fro wouldn’t be sizzling off of my skull.

This PETA protest is for a good cause, but this sun is making it hard to stay loyal.

Just look at all those office people walking to their fancy corporate jobs with their snakeskin shoes and boiled goose. It’s repulsive. Nothing should be taken from an animal. What’s theirs is theirs. Who are we to say otherwise?

I look up at the sun, squinting, “Damn you,” I whisper under my breath. I’ve got two more hours in this hellhole then I can finally escape to the cool of my apartment.

“Of f***!” Some lady just ran up to me and shoved something into my mouth. Before I had the chance to think, it was halfway down my throat.

“You just ate veal! A poor baby cow, dead and butchered, is now digesting in your stomach.” The women yelled. I stare at her, shocked.

“What the s***, man? You b****!” I yelled at her. My life of protecting animals, loving them, standing up for them, had just been compromised. Why? Because the taste of veal was still in my mouth, and I liked it.

I shot down the boulevard in my hybrid, blasting funk music to ease my boiling tension.

S***, I need a burger.

Next thing I know I’m sitting in the parking lot of a McDonald’s. Two burgers had just been devoured by my vegan self.

I feel like a recovering drug addict going through a relapse; an ex-alcoholic finding love in vodka once more. One b**** and one bite of veal and all my morals had been blown away.