If you haven’t practiced self-love yet today, do so by not Googling the phrase “meat sweat,” a cultural term so vile it’s reserved for trucker hats, early episodes of Friends and within the hallowed walls of your local Brazilian barbecue restaurant.
It’s not certain if this disgusting phenomenon is even real, a fact that calls the past seventeen hours of my life into question – am I suffering from placebo meat sweats or a steady stream of tiny, pork-induced panic attacks?
Last night, I went to a Brazilian barbecue with my yes-man attitude and a forsaken anxiety pill refill, forgotten in a series of pressing short-term errands that all included coffee. Today, I am a victim of my own silly belief that anyone can handle anything, and that the human spirit is indomitable. More