When I finally went vegan, my coffee creamer was the last thing to go.

And by “go” – I mean get replaced by something non-animal but palatable. It was tough. Most vegan creamers are pureed defecation, chilled and boxed up for your enjoyment. But my decision wasn’t too tough once I found the wonder that is “So Delicious” coconut creamer. Unlike the soy or almond based fridge companions I chose it over, it was so Lemongrab-antithesis level acceptable that when I did lapse one day and have some cow creamer, it tasted like a vaj lathered in old yogurt. Nothing like I’d remembered it. However, unlike my other dietary quests, my hunt for a healthy-ish A.M. caffeine creamer shoe in was more half assed than my determination to show up everyone asking “where d’you get your proteeeein?” when my hair grew four inches longer than in my dairy ‘n dead creature eating days. I definitely didn’t read much of the label before pouring the stuff into my then-coffee and now homemade green tea lattes. And I probably still wouldn’t’ve if I hadn’t seen this label yesterday, after I’d gotten home and put it in my fridge:

“Now with no carrageenan! Or titanium dioxide!”

Sorry… that’s blurry. You get the point.

And another point (in question) is: So do I throw out the one I bought last time (on the left)?

Ironically (since I bashed them while gobbling the goo down myself) I wrote a thing on this when Starbucks introduced – what else but – their own coconut milk to the chain’s option menu, imbued fully with carrageenan (said to correlate with stomach ulcers and stuff). Equally ironically (or should I say titaniumically? #metaljokes) I was also getting a good mugful of titanium dioxide when I bashed Dunkin for peppering their donuts with the alleged respiratory-function fccker uppery and hippocampus hiccuping TDO’s are known to cause.

Depressing though this is, it’s a great ego-check for me.

I mean, my mom literally just praised me for thoroughly researching all my foods and stuff. And if I were some hardcore vegan (which – I’m sorry but until I live on a Hawaiian island and have a less shitty environment to make me wanna nix all my vices – probably ain’t gonna happen) I wouldn’t have this problem. I think that’s the point here: when you have a vice you aren’t willing or ready to give up, you don’t read the labels. You don’t care. I mean, you don’t hear a junkie asking his pusher through clammy skin, red eyes, and yellow teeth whether his smack’s organic and if it was imported and created cruelty free (spoiler alert: no). Retrospectively, I realize that a whole subconscious executive decision had been reached without my even being fully aware of it. And that’s this: much like most Americans do with all of their food – not just creamer, I didn’t read the label on purpose. I didn’t read the label because I knew that if I didn’t like what I saw, it was only gonna make me feel guilty when I drank it anyway. Stomach and bowel problems? Hogwash. Isn’t it enough that I’m eating so well that my locks and claws have acquired a Pinnochioan growth capacity? Sure my ass may’ve been falling outta my ass, but at least my hair isn’t falling outta my head.

I’ll finish off by saying (for newcomers who don’t get my sense of humor) that this entry’s title’s hyperbolic.

The intestinal and brain dysfunction correlations with the ingredients are in the “more research is needed” phase.

But I do wonder how many other remiss readers are gonna complain f’real about their own faulty research.

I think the most important takeaway here, though is the good news:

I don’t hafta nix my vice ‘cause they changed their recipe.