Despite there being plenty of seating elsewhere, two women sat down directly on top of me and my boyfriend at our regular breakfast place to fatigue each other with textbook beginner vegan conversation and ruin any hope I had of privately enjoying my bright yellow tofu scramble wrap and dissatisfaction with life. One woman sat quietly while the other described how trying seitan has distracted her from her unfulfilling home life. Maybe her husband would pay more attention to her if she didn't dry heave her thoughts as though she were hungover from too many vodka and boring cocktails.
As we were finishing up our cayenne broccoli and free range beans, my boyfriend asked me if I wanted anything else. Usually, I never know what I want, but this time I saw a high-definition image of me picking up a wooden high chair and smashing it into the new vegan lady's head until her bloodied mouth made "texturized vegetable protein" sound like "Texaco venereal Protestant." While I considered the assault, an evil grin spread across on my face involuntarily, like blushing. I've always disturbed people with that grin; I used to get yelled at for it when I was a kid.
And that's when it hit me: being better than everyone doesn't necessarily mean I'm good. All this time I thought I was God, it never occurred to me that I could be the Devil.