The Bite 010: Dear Veganism, We Need to Talk

Day 9 of this “vegan by force” saga. Not 90. Not “a transformative journey.” Nine.

So riddle me this: Why do my jeans feel like I tried to store a rising sourdough starter in them? Anyone else switch to plant life and immediately achieve… circumference?

Isn’t this the part where I’m supposed to be lighter, clearer, energized, levitating over a cutting board while spiralizing zucchini like a fermented forest nymph. Why am I instead negotiating with a waistband like it’s a hostage situation?

Because I swear, I haven’t eaten anything that even resembles a calorie. I’m living off chickpeas, vibes, and anxiety. And yet my jeans — the same jeans that used to slip on like a loyal best friend — are now gaslighting me.

Is this the part where plants try to kill me? Because let’s talk about bloat. This isn’t your cute, Instagram brunch bloat with a casual “ugh, too many mimosas!” smile. This is “Did I just swallow an exercise ball?” bloat. Is “bloat glow” a thing or did I invent that just to emotionally survive mirrors?

Do chickpeas have a personal vendetta? How can chickpeas be marketed as “gentle protein” when they behave inside me like a demolition crew in steel-toed boots? And who decided lentils were “comforting?” Even when I ate meat, lentils hurt. I used to think they were harmless. Cute, even. Now they’ve turned on me like the evil masterminds they are. One minute they’re hummus; the next, they’re building an inflatable fort in my intestines.

And WHY—answer me this holy riddle—does a single innocent bowl of lentil soup generate enough internal percussion to score a marching band halftime show? Are legumes percussive by design?

If the goal was “plant-powered,” why do I feel plant-haunted? Like my intestines are negotiating zoning rights with soluble fiber while I smile faintly and pretend it’s wellness? Will this plant-based life ever stop gaslighting me with fiber and false hope?

Can we talk cravings without the usual “I miss X” script? Mine are… abstract. I crave structural integrity. Silence. Flatness. The feeling of a zipper minding its business. Is that so radical?

Side note, why do non-allergy humans cheerfully say, “Your gut is recalibrating”? Recalibrating to WHAT— life as a weather balloon? Do I clap when this is over? Is there a ribbon cutting? A ceremonial de-bloating?

Who started the rumor that plant-based automatically = slimmer? Because I will make charts. Graphs. A living diorama happening under my sweater that says OTHERWISE. Should I file a false advertising claim with… kale? With chickpea lobbyist?

I guess the big question of my weekend was, do people actually enjoy this? Do vegans wake up every day and choose happiness, or are they just better at faking it while their pants scream behind the scenes? Someone explain. If I see one more influencer smiling over a tofu scramble like it's a spiritual awakening, I’m filing a rage report.

Will I ever stop googling “why does quinoa hate me” at 2 AM? Probably not.

This whole plant-based experience is basically Mean Girls for your stomach. The chickpeas are Regina. The lentils are Gretchen. And I’m Janis — bloated, bitter, and banned from the food court.

That’s where I’m at.

Somewhere between acceptance and an elastic waistband. I don’t know if my pants will ever fit again — but if they don’t, I’m blaming chickpeas. Full stop.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick