I have this bone that I sanitized and polished on my desk, it's an inch thick slice of shank bone from the last piece of cow flesh I intentionally ate and oftentimes I wonder if it's the last piece of that cow that isn't in a landfill or a sewer. I wonder a lot if me having kept it so many years means anything or if I'm just a sick bastard for not burying it along with the many other deceased I keep preserved above ground in alcohol. It is larger and denser than any bone in my entire body. The textures inside where bone marrow used to connect are completely unique to this specific animal as are the faint structural lines and pits where the smallest little blood vessels used to be. This used to be part of a leg that could support the weight of an entire cow and did for however long their life was. this piece of a living being cost me $6, just six dollars for something that cost an animal their entire life just to have be a part of them. That night I made a decision, I cooked that meat barely 30 seconds on each side, just enough to get any residual germs off. It was in my fullest intent to taste blood and I did. It wasn't worth it and killing isn't who I am. I realized that night that no matter how hard my brain tried to rewire pleasure into respect, it'd never be true or honest, and ever since the smell of beef cooking has made me as nauseous as the smell of human flesh being cauterized does.