The finality of becoming food is a beautiful and fitting end to any life.

As I spend my day splitting the skin from the breast, carefully inserting sticks of butter with marjoram, thyme, basil, pepper, salt under the skin, righteously inserting a hot lemon into the once-filled cavity remaining of the bird, preparing the exterior for cooking in a tray surrounded by vegetables, I can't help but be happy for the creature. Once it walked on both legs as I do too, but now it rests in the peace I yearn for. I wish I were tied up on a baking tray, oiled up and slathered in herbs. Bake me for 12 hours until my thick exterior renders into delicious crackling, and consume me. Jesus split a fish amongst 5000, but I'll sacrifice myself as communion for a party as few as one. Does that make me better than Jesus? I'm advised not to say.

This modern age has traded our base animal beings into a, frankly, terrible deal. The frictionless world has removed the affirming blood spewed from the flesh after scraping on a rocky surface, now it's all plastic and child-safe table corners. Well I want my table to have fucking grenades on the corner so I will DIE if I slam my hips into it again. I want the danger. My paleolithic nervous system years for fibreous roots and tough meats, but my modern weak plastic mind wants a coffee made by a homosexual, so I'll have to stop making my own and start making tea out of ginger I foraged from cracks in the car park.

We chew, we swallow, we spit if we're weak - but we never ask. What is the consumption all for, when food is an illusion made to pacify us? With enough will power, I could live for a year without a drop of food or water, which beats that fat Buddha fuck who only made it one month, and he cheated with a grain of rice.

Forget the sanitisation of your life, and piss yourself. Feel the heat wrap around your leg as capillary action wicks it all the way around to the back of your knee. You must break out of this prison by breaking your normality. The crushing mundane cyclical behaviour of the limited days you have left drives you nowhere of a purpose nor intent you decided for yourself, but one defined by countless beings and behaviours engrained into your chipset. Be the fault in the data, become the erroneous result. When you stop hiding the shame of your crusted excrement, your scars, the toes that have been rotting off in shame and secret, you stop performing for the herd and, finally, you will be free.