One of my best friends is named Javier.
(Disclaimer: His name is not really Javier).
One night, Javier and I were having dinner. I had a parmigiana, in case you were wondering.
It was quite delicious. The two of us are mates from our school days, and along with Moffatt, a third member of our clan (yes, his real name is ACTUALLY Moffatt), we rarely get the chance to catch up as a trio.
What with life, etc.
With a beer in one hand and the other resting atop the table, Javier announced, with unashamed pride and fearless abandon, that he is a flexitarian.
“You’re… you’re a what?” I reply.
“A flexitarian,” he says, with a tone that scoffs at my non-flexitarian ways.
Now. We all know of some superbly kooky diets out there. Pescatarianism. Hardcore veganism. That branch of lactose intolerance where they eat ice cream and also cheese.
But behold. I present to you, the flexitarian manifesto.
“I’m a vegetarian, but sometimes I eat meat.”