That doesn’t spark joy.

I don’t want some other animal taking my Freudian pleasure of voring a verdant, fleshy succulent. Feeling the crunching snap of brutality as an innocent plant is ground between my glistering molars. The swallow, the mulched, peppery bolus perestalted down a wet, hungry, pulsing oesophegus. The conversion of what was once a marvel of evolution; a being that could harness the power of a living star to grow and thrive; into fodder for my next bowel movement. From stoma to stoma.

This is not some cool, by-the-numbers optimisation. This is raw, visceral, hungry cruelty.

The old adage can be given greater, poetic specificity. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And it is a salad.