Pledge to Life-Long Vegetarianism

"But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him." -Orwell

This morning Ion, my host brother, came in from the town to slaughter our pig.

"We've got some work to do this morning," he told me, on my trip to the outhouse. I wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about, as it seems Moldovans always have work to do. I contemplated what he might be talking about, while squatting, and trying to keep my balance through my visceral shivers. My goosebumps were as pink as our pig's enormous ears.

On the way out I saw Ion in the pig pen, cornering the pig. It wasn't until that moment that I remembered Nina telling me that Thursday was the day to cook for Easter.

I ran into my room and blasted the new Cursive record as high as my computer would allow. But it was not enough. I did exercises to distract myself. But still, with tears dripping onto my burning abs--hoping the physical pain would distract me--I could hear the pig singing itself to death.