I bet you just lounge around with your little organic friends in the local Whole Foods, waiting for that occasional, refreshing mist of Fiji water to keep yourself beautiful, curly and hydrated for all of the admirers who wander by throughout the day.
It must be nice to sit poolside at the Chateau Marmont, juiced into a tall, cool glass with the likes of Clooney and Pitt wrapping their studly, well-doer, humanitarian hands around you, their lips touching your frothiness as they consume your perfection into their flawless bodies.
If you weren’t a veggie, I could totally see you sporting a cabbie cap, black-framed nerd glasses, skinny jeans and an ironic mustache as you rock out to some über-cool (deck) music on your retro headphones.
Actually, now that I think about it, I’m fairly positive that I saw you being made into crispy-like chips on a recent Portlandia episode. Please tell me that you’re at least union and a card-carrying SAG member; $50 a day definitely won’t cut it for the likes of you.
I totally get why you hold yourself in such high regard. You’re on television, in every other blog, being shared on Pinterest, beautiful people grow you in their gardens and some even turn vegetarian — just for you. Not for nothing, I would have a big head too. Not organic cabbage or iceberg lettuce big, but just the perfect “I’m not a total narcissist” size.
In the end, I truly wish I were as hip and popular as you. Yes, I am jealous of a vegetable. I mean, of course, I am not that bitter. Well, no more bitter than you are.