Dear carnivore, you’re boring.

Ha, burger joints are like, my mecca or something.

Yes, yes, I know. You’re a girl who eats burgers therefore you’re totally ‘normal’ and make a great girlfriend because you can go to MeatLiquor with your boyfriend and not spend the whole time pushing deep fried gherkins reluctantly about your plate but seriously… I don’t need your finger lickin’ food diary all-up on my google reader. Please find something else to blog about and wake up to the fact that YOU ARE NOT AN ANOMALY.

I hate to diss a sista but what (for the love of God!) is this modern day obsession with girls showcasing their carnivorous dark side like they’ve kickstarted a new phase of female evolution? Without wanting to hurl a honey-glazed rib in the workings of their cool campaign, I eat red meat too but manage to resist the urge to market myself as a burger-loving man fantasy, who wipes her greasy mouth on the sleeve of her Celine*. *I don’t own any Celine. It’s my fantasy within a fantasy.

Her words: “Who cares about clothes? Pah! I’m so much more interested in gorging on this hangar steak”

Her inner monologue: “Shit. Perhaps the torrent of tears I shed later will loosen the oil spill that just happened all over my Hermes”

Lux Lisbon doesn’t eat burgers, but if she did they’d look like this.

Just like all of our lives are conscientiously edited to look like scenes from The Virgin Suicides (without the suicides), these blogs promote an image of fun-loving women who are more fun-loving than most because they’re accompanied by a big fat slab of medium-rare meat. Since when was an appetite an accessory and why is it sexy (!?) to opt for offal over insalate?

I, for one, am bored of looking at pictures of gorgeous girls salivating over plates piled with cow. I will gleefully go to Hawksmoor and Instagram the hell out of my meat feast but I will not subject my Facebook friends to pictures of my jaws clamped provocatively ’round a carcass.

Eating is fun and restaurants are hip and by all means keep telling me where to go get my iron-fix but please stop making me feel like chicken is for wimps. I quite like chicken and I DO worry about getting ketchup on my dungarees. That’s why I bib myself into oblivion, eat ’til I’m sated, then head home with béarnaise sauce in my hair. This is also why I’m not a food blogger, but I’m beginning to think i should be… #man-fantasy

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