Sometimes, in the break room, someone who knows I'm vegetarian will actually apologize for eating "meat" in front of me.

"Oh my God! Is this like... totally okay that I'm tearing into this highly processed amalgam of anuses, random organ meat, and rat feces in front of you?" they'll ask.

You already know I'm unbelievably suave, so to this question I tilt my head back, smirk, and say something like, "You know, so long as you don't regurgitate chunks of it into my mouth, like a momma bird, I think we're cool."

"Oh my God! That's like... so cool of you! I mean... I would've like totally turned away or like sat somewhere else." Then they lean in and whisper, "Because I know you're vegetarian, and I don't want to hurt your feelings."

My feelings are never involved when you decide to stuff yourself with what this culture so loosely refers to as "meat". If you bought it for $0.89 at an AM-PM and it fills your stomach, trust me, you didn't eat meat.