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Spencer Pratt’s Mayoral Bid: Unpacking Local Political Rot

There is something refreshingly raw about a figure like Spencer Pratt, the infamous “villain” from The Hills, stepping into the political arena. Yes, I admit it: I have always been drawn to the villain in the story— the one who everyone else seems to hate. And right now, as Pratt campaigns for Mayor of Los Angeles in the 2026 race, that glossing over him is driving me absolutely insane.

The 2026 Experience

Pratt, who announced his bid on the one-year anniversary of the devastating Palisades Fire that claimed his own home, is not running a conventional campaign. He is on a mission to expose what he calls deep-seated fraud, mismanagement, and dysfunction in California. He talks boldly about cleaning up the streets, tackling homelessness (those “zombies”— as he calls them— wandering the city in a drug-fueled haze), and holding the powers-that-be accountable. It is the kind of outsider energy that resonates in a city plagued by visible decay. Yet the media and political insiders treat him like a punchline rather than a serious contender polling in the twenties and surging with real voter frustration. There should be a lesson in that.

Here is the core lesson I have learned from observing politics at every level, and this is not a partisan jab—it is a structural truth that transcends red, blue, or whatever color-coded tribe you belong to: If you truly want meaningful change, you have to drive it locally. Primarily, start with yourself. National spectacles and global posturing grab headlines, but the day-to-day realities that crush or elevate ordinary lives—trash on the sidewalks, skyrocketing rents, failing schools, unchecked crime—are decided in city halls, county offices, and state capitals. The so-called “global elite,” do not lose sleep over the average taxpayer scraping by. They are insulated by distance, wealth, and influence. Real accountability starts at the street level.

Yes, Pratt promises to shine a light on the waste, the fraud, and the entrenched interests that have turned parts of LA into an open-air disaster zone. But let us be brutally honest: do we really believe the system will simply let him? The mayor’s office sits beneath the governor’s shadow in the hierarchy of power. Look at the Zohran guy who won the mayoral election in NYC. never mind that I personally do not support his policies, I am pretty sure that he was never allowed to install his vision. It is because the governor makes the policies. And governors, like California’s Gavin Newsom, are in the business of creating jobs and opportunities—or at least the appearance of them. Here is where the cynical machinery reveals itself:

An hourglass with coins spilling over divides a prosperous city from a poorer settlement below.

Imagine a city where homelessness and open drug use are largely erased. No more tent encampments. No more “zombies” shuffling through downtown or Venice Beach. On the surface, that sounds like victory. But zoom out: entire industries, nonprofits, task forces, union contracts, consulting gigs, and government programs depend on the existence of these problems. Cleanup crews, social workers, outreach teams, mental health contractors, housing initiative funders—the list goes on. If the problem vanishes, so does the justification for the budgets, the grants, and the jobs that flow from it.

This is not conspiracy; it is economics 101. Problems that fester generate employment. Politicians can campaign on “solutions” year after year, securing votes from those dependent on the system while reassuring the frustrated public that help is always just one more program, one more tax increase, one more initiative away. “We’re working on it,” they say, as the tents multiply and the needles pile up. Clean it all up too effectively, and suddenly there is a surplus of idle bureaucrats and contractors wondering where their next paycheck comes from. Better to manage the crisis than solve it outright.

That is the quiet cynicism at the heart of so much local governance. The people are left in a dependent loop, turning to “daddy government” for salvation while the same officials who presided over the decline promise yet another fresh start. Meanwhile, the average Angeleno deals with the fallout: unsafe streets, businesses fleeing, quality of life evaporating. Pratt’s outsider status—reality TV fame, no long political résumé—might be exactly what makes him threatening to this ecosystem. He does not owe favors to the same players as the regular politicians. He lost his home to what he sees as failed leadership. That personal stake could fuel genuine disruption, or it could highlight just how immovable the bureaucratic blob really is. We will see how this all plays out…

I am not endorsing every plank of Pratt’s platform, nor am I blind to the spectacle of a Hills villain turned mayoral hopeful. But the visceral reaction against him from certain corners says more about the defenders of the status quo than about Pratt himself. In an era where frustration with visible failure is boiling over, his surge in the polls (recent numbers putting him in striking distance) reflects an electorate tired of the same scripted failures. But I remain skeptical whether his lofty vision is plausible.

I know that is not how the political game is played. Local politics matters because it is where we see the proof in action. If we keep waiting for distant saviors or global resets, we will stay stuck in this cycle of decline. Whether Pratt can actually break it remains to be seen on June 2 and beyond. But ignoring the messenger because of his reality TV past, while the city continues its slide, would be the real insanity. Change starts local. The question is whether we will let the problems keep paying the salaries, or finally demand they end.

May 26, 2026
Understanding Memorial Day: Origins and Observances
This Memorial Day, my boyfriend and I will be doing what we do best lately: sharing our usual FaceTime coffee date from opposite sides of the country. We have spent several recent Memorial Day weekends physically together, but somehow these long holiday stretches still end up with us glued to our phones — sipping coffee, chatting, and wishing we were in the same room. His grandfather served in the Second World War (but passed away in 2010). Because of that, my history-buff boyfriend feels a deep, personal connection to this holiday that I, as a Russian immigrant, can never quite match.

In Russia, we grow up honoring May 9th — Victory Day — with parades, red carnations, and stories of grandparents who fought in the Great Patriotic War. Patriotism there is loud, emotional, and woven into everyday life. Here in America, it feels quieter. More subdued. I understand why. This land has not seen the kind of devastation and loss that so many other countries have endured on their own soil. America’s wars have largely been fought far away, on someone else’s beaches and battlefields. That distance changes how the day lands in people’s hearts.Still, I find myself reflecting on the sacrifices made by those who came before — especially the ones who made my boyfriend’s family possible. Even from a screen, I am grateful to share this day with him.

Most people treat Memorial Day as the beginning of the summer. However, Memorial Day is more than just a long weekend marking the unofficial start of summer. It should not just be a holiday for another coffee date. It is a solemn national holiday dedicated to remembering and honoring the men and women of the United States Armed Forces who made the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.

A Brief History of Memorial Day

The roots of Memorial Day trace back to the aftermath of the American Civil War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in U.S. history, which claimed the lives of approximately 620,000 soldiers. In the years following the war, communities across the nation began decorating the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers, wreaths, and flags—a practice that gave rise to the original name, “Decoration Day.”

On May 5, 1868, General John A. Logan, commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic (an organization of Union veterans), issued a proclamation establishing Decoration Day on May 30. That first national observance drew thousands to Arlington National Cemetery, where flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers.

While several locations claim to be the birthplace of the holiday (including Charleston, South Carolina, and Boalsburg, Pennsylvania), the tradition spread rapidly. After World War I, it expanded to honor all American service members who died in any war. The name officially became “Memorial Day,” and in 1971, Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, moving it to the last Monday in May to create a three-day weekend.

The True Meaning and Significance

At its core, Memorial Day is about remembrance and gratitude. It acknowledges that freedom is not free and that countless individuals—sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters—paid with their lives to defend the ideals of liberty, democracy, and justice.

This day serves as a powerful reminder of the human cost of conflict. From the Revolutionary War through today’s global operations, these heroes stepped forward when their nation called, often knowing the risks involved. Their sacrifice ensures that future generations can enjoy the blessings of peace and opportunity.

Memorial Day also fosters national unity. It transcends politics, reminding Americans of shared values and the collective debt owed to those who defended them.

How Americans Observe Memorial Day

Traditions vary, but the spirit remains consistent:
- Cemetery visits and grave decorations: Families and volunteers place American flags and flowers on the graves of fallen service members. National cemeteries like Arlington become seas of red, white, and blue.
- Parades and ceremonies: Military parades, speeches, and moments of silence honor the fallen. The National Memorial Day Concert in Washington, D.C., is a highlight.
- Flags at half-staff: From sunrise until noon, U.S. flags fly at half-staff to symbolize mourning, then raised to full staff to honor the living who continue the legacy.
- BBQs and family gatherings: While celebrations often include cookouts, many use the time to reflect, teach children about history, and express thanks.
It is important to distinguish Memorial Day from Veterans Day (November 11 AKA my boyfriend and I’s physical anniversary!)), which honors all who have served—living and deceased. Memorial Day specifically focuses on those who died in service.

Why It Still Matters Today

In an increasingly fast-paced world, Memorial Day calls us to pause. It invites reflection on sacrifice, service, and the responsibilities that come with freedom. For Gold Star families—those who have lost loved ones—it is a day of both profound grief and national recognition.

As we enjoy barbecues, beach trips, and time with loved ones, let us remember the true reason for the holiday.

To all who gave their lives so we might live in freedom: Thank you. We will never forget.

This Memorial Day, may we honor their memory not just with words, but with lives lived in gratitude and service to the country they loved.
May 25, 2026
From Wishful Thinking to Conscious Creation
When I first met my boyfriend, I was deep in what I now laughingly call my “fake it till you make it” era (read more about this, here). Acting like I had already mastered the art of manifestation. I talked about energy, alignment, and “calling in” the life he wanted with total confidence, even though inside I was still figuring it all out, myself. I pretended I was some wise manifestation guru who had her entire reality on lock.

Funny thing is… it worked. Not just in landing the relationship, but in sparking a genuine passion that has completely transformed how I move through the world. Is it ideal and perfect? No, but it is my first manifestation “win.”

Today, manifestation is not a performance for me anymore. It is a daily practice, a philosophy, and one of the most empowering tools I ever discovered. And the cornerstone of it all? Acting as if it has already happened.

A hiker enjoys a breathtaking sunrise above a sea of clouds in the mountains

We have all heard the phrase “fake it till you make it,” but manifestation takes this concept much deeper. It is not about pretending in a superficial way. It is about embodying the version of yourself who already lives in the reality you desire.

When you act as if your dream has already come true, you shift your vibration, your decisions, your energy, and even the opportunities that cross your path. You stop waiting for permission from the universe and start living like the universe has already said yes.

A cozy scene of journaling by a sunlit window with a cup of coffee

Think about it: How would you carry yourself if the love of your life was already by your side? How would you speak, dress, and spend your money if financial abundance was already flowing? How would your thoughts sound if your dream career or body or home was already yours?

That energetic shift is everything.

One of the ideas that completely blew my mind (and made manifestation feel less “woo-woo” and more practical) is this:

Everything is made of particles. And those particles already exist.

The relationship, the money, the opportunities, the health, the experiences you want—they are not being created out of thin air. They are already here, existing as potential in the quantum field. The house you dream of? Its particles are floating around. The love you desire? Those particles of connection and chemistry are already present in the universe. The success you are calling in? Those particles of achievement are waiting to organize themselves into form.

The missing piece? Recognition.

Until your consciousness tunes into them with clarity, emotion, and belief, those particles stay in a state of potential rather than physical reality. Your focused thoughts, feelings, and actions are what collapse the wave of possibility into your actual experience.

A luminous spiral galaxy glowing with vibrant blue and gold light in deep space

This is not just spiritual talk. It echoes concepts from quantum physics—observer effect, entanglement, the idea that reality is far more malleable and responsive than we were taught in school. When you understand this, manifestation stops feeling like wishful thinking and starts feeling like conscious creation.

The Power of Positive Thoughts + Gratitude + Excitement

Here’s the practical formula I live by now:
1. Think the thought — Get crystal clear on what you want. Write it down. Visualize it. Speak it out loud.
2. Feel the feeling — This is where most people fall short. You cannot just think it. You have to feel it. Feel the gratitude as if it is already here. Feel the excitement bubbling up in your chest. Feel the relief, the joy, the pride.
3. Act as if — Make decisions from that place. Show up as that version of you. Say no to things that don’t align. Say yes to things that do.
The combination of gratitude and excitement is an incredibly powerful emotional cocktail. Gratitude sends a clear message to the universe — “Thank you for delivering this” — while excitement broadcasts a high-frequency signal that draws even more of what you desire. You can also spark this excitement by assigning special meaning to a number, animal, or symbol. When you begin seeing it repeatedly, it becomes a beautiful confirmation that your desire is already on its way to you.

I make it a non-negotiable part of my morning routine. Before I close my eyes every night (after our nightly FaceTime session), I feel great gratitude and thank the universe for bringing me beautiful new experiences, this way I am already feeling grateful for the beautiful things that are on their way. I do this every morning, too… I write and talk as if they have already happened. I celebrate tiny wins like they are massive victories (like getting the bowl for my snack!). And the results? They keep showing up.

Looking back, pretending to be that manifestation guru when I met my boyfriend was never really pretending. It was me stepping into the energy of the woman I wanted to become. I was rehearsing my future self.

And now? I do not have to rehearse anymore. I am her.

Manifestation has helped me call in deeper love, creative opportunities, better health, and a sense of peace I did not know was possible. It is not about toxic positivity or ignoring real challenges. It is about choosing where you place your focus and refusing to let fear write the story.

The universe is listening. The particles are ready. Your only job is to recognize what is already yours.
May 24, 2026
Cottagecore: Embrace the Gentle Rebellion Against Hustle Culture

In a world that glorifies the relentless grind—the 5 a.m. alarms, the overflowing inboxes, the endless cycle of productivity hacks and side hustles—there is a quiet revolution blooming in meadows and on windowsills. It is called cottagecore, and it is not just an aesthetic. It is a lifeline for those of us whose nervous systems have been fried by the modern expectation to do it all, be it all, and still look effortlessly polished while doing so.

Cottagecore is the dream of soft mornings wrapped in linen, the scent of fresh bread cooling on the windowsill, hands stained with berry juice from jam-making rather than ink . It is the gentle rejection of a life that was never designed for human flourishing. And for many burned-out Zoomers (and yes, some of us who came just before them), it became the soft landing we desperately needed.

Picture this: You are rushing out the door, hobbling in stilettos, latte in one hand, briefcase threatening to burst just like your barely-contained anxiety. You Uber across the city for a meeting that could have been an email, all while mentally preparing for happy hour later—because heaven forbid you miss the narrow window to “meet someone” who might join you for brunch on the weekend. Then, because society demands you remain a certain shape, you drag yourself to a workout class at dawn so you do not become one of those “sad piles of fat.”

A businesswoman confidently strides across a busy city street holding coffee and files

Layer on top of that the constant family obligations, notifications that never stop pinging, and the quiet terror that if you slow down for even a moment, you can fall behind. Our nervous systems were never meant to handle this level of stimulation. We are wired for seasonal rhythms, for community in small doses, for rest that actually restores.

The pandemic, for many, cracked the illusion wide open. Suddenly the hamster wheel paused. No more commuting. No more forced socializing that left us emptier than before. And in that stillness, a truth emerged: we do not actually want the girlboss life. We want to bake sourdough at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. We want to knit by the window while it rains. We want to tend a garden that feeds us more than just vegetables—it feeds our souls.

A person plants a young herb in a sunny garden bed surrounded by labeled plants and gardening tools.

I am not Gen Z. I did not discover cottagecore because the hustle culture finally broke me during lockdown. I chose this life because I fell in love—with a person, with a pace, with a vision of days that felt like poetry instead of performance.

While the world was collectively reevaluating during those strange years, my slower lifestyle was already taking root. The pandemic did not force my hand; it simply confirmed what my heart already knew. I did not want to optimize my life for maximum output. I wanted to nurture. To create a home that felt like an embrace. To build something sustainable not just for my bank account, but for my spirit.

There is profound strength in choosing the wooden spoon over the corner office. In trading stilettos for wool socks and well-worn boots. In measuring success by how many jars of jam line your pantry shelves instead of how many LinkedIn connections you have made.

This is not about cosplaying: romanticizing poverty or playing pretend farm. It is about reclaiming what actually makes us feel alive.

Cottagecore reminds us that caring— for a home, a garden, a partner, ourselves—is not weakness. It is the most radical act in a culture that tells us to outsource our softness.

A warm rustic kitchen bathed in morning sunlight overlooking a garden

We were not built for constant performance. Our bodies and minds crave the slow turn of seasons, the satisfaction of self-sufficiency, the deep peace that comes from creating rather than consuming.

To every soul who feels the pull toward this softer path: you are not lazy. You are not failing at modern life. You are remembering something ancient and true.

Cottagecore is not an escape. It is a homecoming.

May 23, 2026
Why I Embrace My Ego: A Counter to Eckhart Tolle’s Philosophy

Look, I am not here to hate on spirituality. I am deep in the gratitude game. I say my thank-yous to the universe, I journal my little wins, I burn sage when the vibe feels off. I am not some closed-off cynic. But The Power of Now? Eckhart Tolle’s whole “dissolve your ego and float in the present moment like a neutered zen monk” sermon? Hard pass. That does not sit right with me. It actually pisses me off a little.

The core of his gospel is this idea that your ego — those loud, chaotic, nonstop voices in your head — is the enemy. The villain that keeps you trapped in regret about yesterday and anxiety about tomorrow. Just drop it, he says. Surrender. Become pure consciousness. Be here. Be now.

Nah. I love my ego. I cherish it. The ego has been my ride-or-die since day one.

I definitely do not dwell on the past like most people. No endless loops of “what if I’d done this differently” or chewing on ancient mistakes. I burned those bridges and kept going. But the future? Oh, I am projecting that, I am out here scripting scenes, imagining outcomes, weighing risks, and feeling a healthy dose of hesitation about what is coming. That is not a flaw. That is survival.

My ego has always been the loudest voice in the room — and I like it that way. Sure, acting like I am slightly better than everyone else has slammed some doors in my face. I have been called arrogant. Intimidating. “Too much.” Whatever. Those doors probably led to boring rooms full of beige people anyway. The same ego that rubbed some the wrong way also pulled in the chaotic, brilliant, ride-or-die humans I actually stuck with. It carved out a life that is messy, dramatic, and mine. I am not trading that for some sterile, ego-less void where I am supposed to smile at my IKEA furniture and pretend the present moment is peak existence.

Because let’s be real: I do not love the Now.

My current living situation? It is mid at best. The walls are closing in, the vibe is stale, and every day I am reminded this is not where I am supposed to settle. Everything is improving — slowly. My love life finally exists after what felt like a years in the Sahara, which should be a win, right? Except it is not all butterflies and multiple orgasms nightly. It comes with this sharp, gnawing loneliness that hits at 2 a.m. and makes me stress-eat like a raccoon in a dumpster. The Now, in 2026, tastes like lukewarm disappointment with a side of “is this it?”

And Tolle wants me to dissolve into this? To stop thinking ahead and just marinate in the current flavor of meh? Sorry, Eckhart. I am not enlightened enough to find bliss in my fridge and relationship anxiety.

I get it — rumination is a trap. Endless future-tripping can paralyze you. But pretending the ego is pure poison ignores how much fire it gives you. My ego is the part that says “I want more.” It is the voice that pushes me to level up, to demand better, to not settle for spiritual crumbs when I could build an empire (or at least a life that does not make me want to die ).

So, I will keep my ego. I will keep my sharp edges, my projections, my cocky little strut through a world that keeps trying to humble me. I will stay ungrateful about certain parts of the Now because that discontent is rocket fuel. Maybe one day I will evolve into some floating consciousness who does not need anything external. But right now? I am stress-eating, plotting my next move, and loving the chaos in my head that refuses to shut up.

Call it toxic. Call it resistance. I call it being alive.

May 22, 2026
Navigating Youthful Chaos: My High School Journey

My boyfriend and I have been mainlining our childhood like it is a caffeine drip—Beverly Hills, 90210, Melrose Place, and now it is my turn to open his eyes to my own high school drama—the glossy, sun-soaked fever dream that was The OC. God, I used to worship that world. I wanted the luxury car, the beach house, the effortless drama. Mostly I wanted the body. Marissa Cooper’s surfboard silhouette—long, lean, zero percent body fat, the kind of thin that makes clothes hang on your protruding bones. Paris Hilton-esque. vacant-eyed and untouchable. I wanted to be built like a surfboard. Instead, I got my own high school experience, which played out less like a Fox teen soap and more like a psychological horror.

I changed school districts right before freshman year so that I could attend private school. Fresh start! New hallways, new faces, new chance to reinvent myself as someone people actually wanted to sit with at lunch. I showed up with the kind of desperate optimism only a fourteen-year-old can muster. I smiled too wide. I laughed at jokes that were not actually funny. I even joined the school soccer team, even though I was only a little speedster without any soccer ball skills. I was ready to collect friends like limited-edition.

Middle school had already done its damage, though (read here). That was where I learned the rules of the game: be thin, get straight A’s, and the world will throw compliments at you like confetti. Teachers beamed. Boys stared. My mother bragged. It was the easiest dopamine I had ever scored. So when high school hit, I doubled down like a junkie with a new dealer. Social life? Optional. Body? A full-time job. Grades? Non-negotiable. Everything else could rot.

I did try, in my own half-assed way. I met boys. Kissed one. The “bad boy” ala Ryan from The OC. Let him finger me through my Juicy Couture jeans (try explaining that hole in your jeans). I even went back to my old district just to play tennis for their team—commuting like a masochist because apparently I still needed some thread connecting me to “normal” teenage life. Those bus rides were surreal: me in my little skirt, racquet between my knees, pretending I was just like everyone else while my brain screamed calorie counts and tomorrow’s biology test.

But the obsession was already metastasizing. One solid year of high school—that is all I really got before the sickness took the wheel. Freshman year had moments of light. I remember walking the halls in low-rise jeans that showed the sharp edges of my hip bones like trophies. I remember the rush when a senior looked twice. I remember thinking, This is working. Keep going.

Then the mirror became my enemy, my priest, and my dealer all at once. I stopped eating lunch. I did sit-ups until 2 am. I measured my worth in the gap between my thighs and the numbers on the scale. Straight A’s were never enough anymore—they were just part of the game. The real prize was disappearing. Becoming so small that people worried. That kind of worry felt like love.

The new school never really knew me. How could they? I was a ghost in Abercrombie. I showed up, aced everything, then vanished into my room to count ribs and cry over missed carbs. Friends tried. I pushed them away with the polite brutality of a girl who is already in love with her own destruction. Boys were easier—they wanted the fantasy, not the full dossier of my neuroses. So I became that girl… the boys’ friend. I gave them pieces. Never the whole haunted house.

Looking back, it is grotesque how romantic I made it all seem. The OC soundtrack in my head while I did crunches at midnight. The way I would stare at Marissa’s collarbones like they were scripture. I wanted that coastal California emptiness so badly I carved it into myself in the middle of nowhere suburbia. Meanwhile, the real kids around me were making memories—bonfires, breakups, bad decisions with cheap beer. I was making spreadsheets of my intake and hating myself in HD.

There is something darkly funny about it now. I traded four years of messy, stupid, glorious teenage chaos for a body that still was not thin enough and a transcript that could not hug me back. I was the girl who had it “together.” Teachers loved me. My report cards were porn for my Russian parents. And I was rotting from the inside out, polite smile stapled to my face.

If I could go back, I would tell that wide-eyed freshman something brutal: the praise feels good until it does not. The boys will not save you. The scale lies. And no amount of straight A’s will make you feel safe in your own skin. Sometimes the rebellion is not starving—it is eating the pizza and going to the dumb party anyway.

But I cannot go back. So instead I am here, rewatching The OC with my boyfriend, laughing at how fake it all looks now. Marissa’s tragic glamour hits different when you have lived a version of it and survived. I am softer now. Older. Still fucked up in new and exciting ways. But at least I am not measuring my worth in negative space anymore.

High school me would call that weak. Adult me calls it winning.

What a twisted little victory lap.

May 21, 2026
So Much For Therapy’s Deficit Model: I’m Actually Winning Right Now

I am done pretending I need to hunt for problems like some emotional truffle pig. Therapy loves to open every session with that tired script: “What’s been bothering you lately?” or the classic “What’s on your mind today?” Like clockwork. Every. Single. Time.

It is exhausting. Not because I am repressing trauma or whatever buzzword they are peddling this week, but because it forces you into this permanent defeatist mindset. Your brain starts scanning for cracks in life.. I used to play along. I used to dutifully excavate my worries about recovery—will my body ever feel like mine again? Will the future with my boyfriend actually stick or are we just trauma-bonded?—and hand them over like a good little patient.

Not lately though. Lately the script flipped and I am not apologizing for it.

I have been incredibly blessed, and saying that out loud feels almost rebellious in a culture addicted to struggle porn. My recovery is not some fragile domino set anymore; it is steady. The kind of steady where I wake up and do not immediately audit every pain like a hypochondriac auditor. My relationship? We are not just surviving—we are actually building something that does not feel like it is one bad night away from collapsing. He promises me the world and I hold him to it. We are laughing more than we are spiraling. Wild concept.

And then there was Friday.

I met my friend at that little corner café—the one with the ketogenic goodies. She has not seen me in a couple months, but she was the only one I met with post-stroke-we reconnected in 2015– when I was still drooling all over the place and pissing myself. She has since divorced, remarried, birthed two children and dominated the business world.

I just smirked and ordered my usual. Because, my own glow-up is also real. And yes I owe it mostly to him— making me less self-conscious about my body and showing me how I can be loved just by being me. Unfortunately, my entire existence has been riddled with the feeling that I am somehow “not good enough” (read more about that here and here). Enter him. My boyfriend. My knight in shining armor. Skin clearer, posture straighter, that quiet confidence that does not need to announce itself with neon. Quietly improving in all aspects of life. I have been working out with actual consistency instead of performative self-punishment. Eating like I respect my body instead of bargaining with it. Dressing like I actually want to be seen. The kind of changes that happen when you stop waiting for permission to feel good.

She kept saying I looked “different.” Lighter. Like I have shed an invisible backpack full of other people’s expectations. And she is right. I have.

Therapy wants me to pathologize this. To poke at it until I find the hidden rot. “But what if the other shoe drops?” “Are you avoiding processing—?” Nope. I am not avoiding. I am just refusing to live in the waiting room of my own life anymore, endlessly prepping for the next disaster that might not even show up.

This is not toxic positivity. This is pattern recognition. For once the scale is tipping toward good, and I am not going to self-sabotage by being suspicious about it . The universe finally tossed me a W streak and I am milking it. I am wearing the glow like it is my princess crown. Let the worried voices stay with the parents; I am out here collecting evidence that healing does not have to be miserable theater.

So next time some well-meaning therapist asks what is bothering me, I might just lean back, smile like the villain who won, and say:

“Nothing. For the first time in forever, absolutely fucking nothing. Next question.”

The glow-up is not just skin-deep. It is systemic. And I am not going back to deficit mode just to make the session notes sound productive.

Stay winning.

May 20, 2026
Retardmaxxing: Just Do It

In a timeline where every girl and soyboy is perfecting and enhancing their looks via what is referred to as “looksmaxxing”(my man likes to say that we are “soulmatemaxxing”),there is a new trend called Retardmaxxing. So instead of journaling morning routines, tracking macros like an autist, and listening to productivity podcasts, the gods have delivered the ultimate middle finger for succeeding in life : Retardmaxxing.

It is the philosophy of massive, glorious, unhinged action while telling your neurotic overthinking brain to shut up.

Popularized by Elisha Long and boosted when based tech bro Marc Andreessen started tweeting “Day 19,977 of retardmaxxing. Things going really well.” I personally heard about it from Chamath Palihapitiya on his recent Joe Rogan podcast episode. The core thesis? Stop being a paralyzed genius. Start being a retarded warrior who just goes.

It reminded me of a movie I adore: Forest Gump. I know, I know…. It is so original to love a cult classic movie, but my man literally just showed it to me a couple years ago!

I love how Gump approaches life. He literally does not know any other options exist so he goes head first into literally anything he does!

This is honestly even how I started approaching life. From diet to physical exercise to relationships— I just go. No overthinking or “Oh no” thoughts— just the simple “I want it. I do it.” Overthinking consequences manifests those consequences. Not “low IQ.” Not actual brain damage. It is weaponized anti-perfectionism. Throw everything at the wall so hard it leaves a dent. See what sticks. Adjust later. Momentum is king.

This is the antidote to looksmaxxing, sigma male grindset, and every other sterilized self-improvement cult that has you measuring your jawline instead of living.

It is spreading like wildfire because modern life turned everyone into anxious, over-educated bitches.

Retardmaxxing says: Send the risky text. Launch the business. Lift the heavy weights like a caveman. Your brain is not smarter than reality. Reality rewards the guy who moves first and figures it out in the trenches.

It is not recklessness. It is pattern recognition that overthinking is the real retard.

“Oh no, think of the disabled people!”

This is ironic internet warfare. We are reclaiming slurs faster than your therapist can prescribe your medication. The term exists to trigger exactly the pearl-clutching midwits who need retardmaxxing most. If you are too fragile for the packaging, you will never handle the content.

The message stands: God blesses his most retarded warriors. The ones who charge headfirst while the smart kids are still running simulations.

So find the thing you have been overthinking for months. That book? That cold approach? That risky career move? Good.

Make the first step so braindead easy a goldfish could do it. Open the doc. Send the message. Put on shoes.

Embrace public humiliation. Your first attempt will suck. Post it anyway. The second will suck less. By the tenth you should be cooking.

Stop listening to/ skimming podcasts and articles. Stop consuming. Start producing like a degenerate with nothing to lose.

When in doubt: be retarded. Calm when you need calm. Retarded when you need results. Never anxious.

Stop waiting for perfect conditions. Conditions are never perfect. The universe runs on chaos, not your iCalendar.

Bottom Line

Retardmaxxing is not a lifestyle. It is a nuke for your inner voice.

Intelligence without execution is mental masturbation. Stop jerking your ego and start painting the walls with your mistakes. So simply put— just do it!

May 19, 2026
AI’s Future: Collaboration, Not Replacement

The normies salivate over the fact that artificial intelligence is going to take over our jobs. They think that the economy will tank because we only employ robots to do every job. News flash: the robots are not taking over any time soon (maybe thirty years?). Yes, we have gotten to the point where we all are consistently asking computers to assist with any questions (Grok!) that we have and any mathematical or numerical problems. In essence, I can see how AI can tackle desk work jobs, but do you really think robots are about to running around building and fixing something? They will need human assistance and supervision for the near future.

You have seen this in headlines. You probably have scrolled past the doomsday posts and cable segments. “Artificial Intelligence is coming for your job!” scream the commentators. Normies everywhere are practically salivating at the thought—some with an evil smile, imagining a world of universal basic income (UBI) and endless leisure (Netflix all day!); others hoarding canned goods with dread, picturing bread lines filled with former office workers and factory hands. The narrative is everywhere: robots will replace us all, the economy will collapse under the weight of mass unemployment, and humanity will be left twiddling its thumbs while silicon overlords run the show.

News flash: the robots are not taking over anytime soon. Not next year. Not in five years. Maybe—not even—in thirty.

Let’s be real about where we actually stand.

Yes, we have reached a point where asking an AI for help has become as natural as googling something in the early 2000s. Need to draft an email, analyze a spreadsheet, brainstorm marketing ideas, debug code, or solve a complex math problem? AI handles it with faster than the average midwit. Tools like my all time favorite Grok, or even Claude, GPT models, and other rapidly improving ones are already reshaping desk-based, cognitive, and creative work.

White-collar jobs are watching their skillset get dominated by AI. Jobs that once required hours of research, writing, or number-crunching are getting automated. A junior analyst who used to spend days building financial models can now get a strong first draft in minutes. A copywriter can generate ten headline variations instantly. Lawyers can summarize case law faster than ever. This is real, measurable productivity gain.

But here is the crucial distinction most fear-mongering articles miss: there is a massive gap between digital intelligence and physical dexterity (being good at life itself).

Do you honestly believe we are on the verge of humanoid robots scurrying around construction sites, plumbing bathrooms, fixing electrical systems, or performing delicate surgeries at scale? Not even close, all they really do is dance and only perform in controlled settings.

Current robotics still struggles with the messy, unpredictable nature of the physical world. A robot might nail a repetitive task in a perfectly controlled factory environment (think automotive assembly lines that have used automation for decades), but throw in a surprise—like a slightly misaligned beam, a puddle on the floor, or a non-standard part—and things fall apart quickly. They require improvisation, tactile feedback, spatial reasoning in unstructured spaces, and the kind of monkey-brain common sense that humans develop from childhood.

Even the most advanced robots today, like those from Boston Dynamics or Figure AI, are impressive in demos but remain expensive, power-hungry, and limited in practical deployment. They need constant human supervision, specialized environments, and frequent maintenance. Scaling that to replace millions of tradespeople, warehouse workers, mechanics, or caregivers? That is not a software update away. It is an engineering, materials science, energy, and cost problem that will take decades to solve.

“AI does not replace humans. It replaces the boring, repetitive, low-judgment parts of what humans do.”

Do we really envision the cheapskates of our society to spend billions of their hard-earned money on fleets of finicky machines?

And, while robots might handle 80% of a task, that final 20% often requires human judgment, creativity, or physical adaptability.

The smarter take is not “AI replaces humans.” It is “AI augments humans.”

Construction workers using AI-powered design tools and augmented reality glasses. Plumbers with diagnostic AIs that pinpoint leaks before they dig. Mechanics with predictive maintenance systems that tell them exactly what is failing. Healthcare workers supported by AI that handles paperwork and initial diagnostics, freeing them up for actual patient care. But, again, I have an extremely hard time believing that regular businesses (not giant global interprises) will be paying big bucks for even these AI tools.

This is not a zero-sum game. Historically, technological revolutions do not just destroy jobs—they create entirely new ones we could not have imagined before. The automobile did not just kill buggy-whip makers; it birthed entire industries: mechanics, road builders, logistics networks, suburban development(the drive-thru), and car culture itself.

AI will do the same. Cry about it, or adapt. We will need people to train models, maintain robots, design ethical frameworks, manage human-AI teams, create new forms of art and entertainment, and solve problems we have not even identified yet. The economy does not “tank” when productivity rises—it grows, often dramatically.

In the next 5–10 years, yes, we can definitely expect significant disruption in purely cognitive fields: data entry, basic customer service, routine legal work, simple coding, content generation. Some of these roles will shrink. But others will evolve into higher-value versions.

Physical trades will be safe for everyone. We will still need firefighters to fight fires, surgeons to perform operations (I definitely do not foresee a machine maneuvering the human brain, etc), etc. They will face pressure at the margins, but widespread replacement is still science fiction. We are more likely to see hybrid systems where humans and machines collaborate than full robot takeovers.

Thirty years out? Who knows. By then, we might have more capable robots. But even then, human oversight, creativity, and social intelligence will remain premium skills. AI is just a ridiculously powerful new tool that kills soul-crushing tedium and hands ambitious people rocket fuel.

The world will still need builders, fixers, caregivers, teachers, strategists, and visionaries.

Bottom Line

The sky is not falling. The AI revolution is coming, but it is not the Terminator-style many are hyping. It is a powerful new tool—one that will eliminate dullness, boost productivity, and open doors to abundance if we approach it wisely.

Instead of panicking or salivating over collapse narratives, let us focus on adaptation. Learn to work with AI. Develop skills that complement it: physical trades, emotional intelligence, complex problem-solving, and hands-on expertise. The future belongs to those who see AI as a collaborator, not a competitor.

The robots are not coming for your job tomorrow. But they might just make your job—and your life—better. The real question is whether we are ready to seize that opportunity.

May 18, 2026
My Passion for Nutrition (pt. 4)
Bread has been a dietary staple for thousands of years, but not all loaves are created equal. Sourdough — the ancient, tangy favorite that has seen a massive resurgence in home kitchens— is not only a cottagecore trend in which people are opting to live a quiet and peaceful lifestyle. Conventional bread — the convenient, soft slices that fill supermarket shelves— is basically just considered optimal because of the mass production ability of it.

The great health guru- Gary Brecka!

Sourdough Bread vs. Conventional Bread: Which One Deserves a Spot on Your Table?

Sourdough is one of the oldest forms of leavened bread, dating back to ancient Egypt around 1500 BCE (with even earlier evidence possibly from 3700 BCE in Switzerland). It likely started accidentally when dough was left out and colonized by wild yeast and bacteria. This method spread to the Greeks and Romans and remained the primary way to make bread for most of human history until the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Commercial baker’s yeast, isolated in the 19th century, revolutionized bread-making by speeding up the process. This enabled mass production of consistent, soft loaves.

Sourdough stuck around in places like San Francisco (famous during the Gold Rush, where miners kept starters warm), but conventional bread became the everyday norm.

The biggest distinction between the two types lies in leavening and fermentation:
- Sourdough: Made with a “starter” — a live culture of flour and water harboring wild yeast and lactic acid bacteria. The dough ferments slowly (often 12–48 hours or more). Ingredients are simple: flour, water, salt, and the starter. No commercial yeast needed. This long fermentation creates lactic and acetic acids, giving the signature tang.
- Conventional bread: Uses fast-acting commercial yeast for a quick rise (often just 1–2 hours). Many store-bought versions include additives like dough conditioners, preservatives (e.g., calcium propionate), emulsifiers, sugars, or even vinegar for fake “sour” flavor. “Sourdough” labels on grocery shelves are not always true sourdough — check ingredients! It should literally be 3-4 items listed.
True artisan sourdough is a labor of love. Handmade from the loving baker in your home (or a small local bakery). Conventional bread prioritizes speed, shelf life, and uniformity (a sad state of affairs).

Sourdough often helps with digestion and blood sugar, thanks to fermentation.

Fermentation breaks down phytic acid (which binds minerals), reducing it significantly more than yeast alone (up to 62% vs. 38%). It also lowers hard-to-digest carbs. Fermentation also partially breaks down gluten, helping many with sensitivities. Result: Less bloating!

Sourdough bread has a lower glycemic index (GI): Sourdough typically has a lower GI (~54) than white bread (~71), leading to steadier blood sugar and potentially more satiety.

It also has a better absorption of minerals like magnesium, iron, and zinc. It may support gut health via prebiotics from the fermentation.

Unfortunately, sourdough can be similar or slightly higher in calories/protein/fiber depending on the flour. This is why most normies prefer regular shelf life. They think that the less calories the better. Never mind the quality and nutrients.

Conventional breads are often fortified with vitamins. Whole-grain conventional options can be healthy too. Sourdough is definitely not a miracle food, but the slow process generally makes it more “gut-friendly.”

Sourdough is very complex and tangy in flavor with nutty, acidic notes. It has a chewy crumb, crisp crust, and open holes from the long fermentation. It toasts beautifully and pairs with everything from butter to soups.

Conventional bread is a milder, sweeter taste. Softer, more uniform texture — great for sandwiches or French toast, but often lacks depth.

Many prefer sourdough for its artisanal appeal, though it stales faster without preservatives. All natural is not always cute. Think of sourdough as a beautiful woman who does not get work done versus all the “Instagram models” who often look identical full of plastic surgery.

Sourdough bread is certainly superior in flavor, with potential health perks, and very minimal ingredients, (plus it is satisfying to make!) however it is often time-intensive (or pricier if buying), with variable results and a shorter shelf life.

Personally, I adore sourdough… We get fresh loaves from a local (gluten free!) bakery. It is so scrumptious; literally whenever I feel like I am wasting away, I go to the kitchen and fist the inside of the loaf- leaving the inside for everyone else (smirk)…
May 17, 2026