Like everyone else, I sometimes crave expensive raw veggies served to me by a waitress with blue hair, gauges, and six nose rings. That’s why I went to Life Alive, where I thought I’d be accepted because see, I too have face piercings.

I was wrong.

When I got up to the counter, a hipster in a bandana was licking a plate clean. I asked her if she was on her lunch break. She said she was the dishwasher. My first mistake.

Sensing her annoyance, I knew what I had to do. I pushed my hair behind my ear to reveal my double helix, conch, and three lobe piercings. She raised a pierced eyebrow and bowed slightly in apology, then asked what I wanted to order.

The next test. I was sweating bullets. I ordered a Green Goddess bowl, and she seemed to find that acceptable. She asked if I had just gone on a run, because I was really drenched. I said, “Nope.”

I thought that was the worst of it. Then, I made the worst mistake imaginable.

“What is cannabis oil?”

It happened in slow motion. I tried to cover it up. I complimented her septum and asked if she got it at Stingray. I told her I was thinking about getting one because it looked so good on her, which was impressive because not everyone can pull it off.

That was what did it. She knew I didn’t belong. She opened her acid wash denim jacket to reveal pockets and pockets of guns: Piercing guns, that is. She slammed one on the table and demanded I get a daith or get out.

I haven’t been back since. I know I’m missing out on ambiguously spicy kale and unexplainable diarrhea, but it’s just not worth it. I know I’ll never be accepted. I guess I’ll go to Sweetgreen, where the food is unbearably delicious and the workers are annoyingly accepting.

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