Kat’s Musings

Tag: diet

  • Farmers Markets: My Glorious, Pretentious, Overpriced Heaven on Earth

    Farmers Markets: My Glorious, Pretentious, Overpriced Heaven on Earth

    Listen up, you cynical pricks hiding behind your Costco hauls—I adore farmers’ markets. Every time I am there like I am visiting a Holy Land, ready to worship at the church of rainbow chard and $12 avocados (you will never see me with one of those reusable tote bags though!). This is where the real ones gather. This is my happy place.

    Yeah, I am that girl. Like the ones in the thrifted overalls and clogs that cost more than your rent, filming a slow-living reel while their gas guzzling SUV gently idles (because parking here is a mess). I want to pay $9 for eggs laid by chickens that live better than most humans. I crave that smug little rush when he (or my mother) drops $17 on a sourdough loaf that tastes like it was kissed by actual angels and fermented in someone’s grandma’s basement. Keep your sad plastic-wrapped bread, normies. I will take the one with the charmingly inconsistent crumble.

    The smells? Intoxicating. Patchouli, dirt, overripe peaches, and that faint hint of unwashed authenticity—it is the scent of people who decided life is too short for deodorant politics (AKA cosplaying as hippies). I breathe it in deep while some trust-fund “farmer” with perfect teeth tells me about his heirloom tomatoes like he is reciting poetry. I eat that shit up. Literally. Those tomatoes probably cost more than therapy, but until I get my own garden, they will be worth every penny.

    I love the performers. The wellness girlies comparing fermentation jars. The melting pot of cuisines from different cultures. The dudes in linen who lecture you about soil health while smelling like they just rolled. But this is peak Americana. This is community, baby. Chaotic, expensive, beautiful community.

    Call me a mark. I wear that label with pride while sipping my $6 mason jar iced coffee and pretending that a single peach cannot bankrupt you . I know half this produce probably took a scenic route from the next town over, but I really could not care less about carbon emissions. I know I could get functionally the same shit cheaper at a local grocery store, but can that store guarantee health or allow every customer to be zany and beautifully weird? I do not want functional. I want vibes. I want to role play as a peasant who is gifted $300 linen and feels morally superior.

    This is peak modern romance: pretending we are connected to the land while dropping stupid money on vegetables. And I am here for every hypocritical, joyfully overpriced second of it. The grass-fed beef guy who eyes me like I am about to ask if it is grass-fed? Legend. The honey Chad with his ayahuasca stories? Pour it straight into my soul (and my latte).

    Clearly, I adore farmers’ markets. They are ridiculous. They are pretentious. They are everything I never knew I needed in a weekend morning ritual. Keep your conventional meat and your pesticides. I will be over here, grinning like an idiot, biting into a tomato that costs as much as a latte and tasting pure, unfiltered bliss.

    The Historical Timeline Of This Glorious Phenomenon:

    My history-buff-man has me looking up the why behind farmers’ markets and my sudden desire to be a whimsy, pretentious health nut. Ultimately, farmers’ markets are history. Farmers’ markets have ancient roots in Europe and have evolved as direct links between food producers and consumers for thousands of years.

    The earliest recorded open-air markets resembling farmers’ markets date back over 5,000 years to ancient Egypt along the Nile River (ala Aladdin). People bartered or sold staples like wheat, fruits, vegetables, and other goods. Similar marketplaces existed in many ancient civilizations, where farmers and producers gathered to trade directly with buyers. The introduction of currency helped formalize these exchanges into structures more like modern markets.

    European settlers brought the tradition to North America in the 1600s. Like everything else: we copied it from Europe!

    One of the first recorded European-style farmers’ markets in what is now the United States was established in Boston in 1634 (no wonder I love!). It started as an open-air market and later included a wooden building by 1662. Other early markets followed in places like Hartford (1643), New York City (by 1686), and Philadelphia (1693).

    These markets quickly became focal points of urban commerce and social life, where farmers sold fresh produce, meats, dairy, and other goods directly to consumers.

    Markets flourished through the 1800s and early 1900s as cities expanded and rail lines improved access. They were essential for fresh food distribution before widespread refrigeration and supermarkets.

    A resurgence began in the late 20th century, driven by interest in fresh, local, and sustainable food, support for small farms, environmental concerns, and community building. Plus it is simply a vibe. Way more character than a simp grocery store.

    This growth aligns with broader movements for healthier eating, preserving local varieties, and connecting urban and rural communities.

    Today, farmers’ markets vary widely—from small weekly gatherings to large established ones—and often include crafts, prepared foods, and entertainment alongside produce.

    The core purpose of a farmers’ market is linking producers and consumers. It has remained remarkably consistent across millennia, even as the context shifts with technology, economics, and culture.

    They continue to emphasize direct farm-to-consumer connections, though challenges like seasonality and competition with grocery stores persist. I personally think that we just like to pretend that we are all hipsters and that a grocery shop will never produce these feelings.

  • M.I.L.F (Man I Love Fruit!)

    M.I.L.F (Man I Love Fruit!)

    I adore the sharp, explosive taste of real fruit. Not that syrupy canned bullshit or sad mealy apples from the back of the fridge — I am talking proper, juicy, nature’s middle finger to boring snacks. I demolish fruit. An entire 4 lb. box of grapes? Vaporized in one sitting. Massive haul of berries or cherries? Do not test me. I will finish them while you are probably still peeling the plastic off of yours.

    My ranking right now:

    1. Green Grapes — Crisp snappy globes that snap like they are personally offended by your eating them. They are basically edible crack. Zero mush tolerance. These things keep me hydrated and sane.
    2. Rainier Cherries (Yellow ones especially) — These golden-reds taste like someone spiked a peach with caramel and told it to get sexy. Sweet as hell and low acid. I hoard them in the summer.
    3. Blueberries — Tiny antioxidant grenades. I shove handfuls in my face straight from the carton. They stain everything and I definitely do not give a shit. Brain food that actually works.
    4. Banana — especially coupled with espresso — Creamy and potassium-packed. But here is the move: semi-green banana + fresh espresso shot = sweet-bitter chaos that hits better than most desserts.
    5. Obviously my top tier fruits are tropical fruits(pineapple, mango, kiwi etc)! However living around here makes it difficult to get good quality (organic!) ones. Once you have sunk your teeth into a giant mango sold at the Cuban roadside by a local vendor, you will turn your nose up at the plastic-tasting ones here. (I went to Cuba in 2009– the last trip I had taken before my disability)

    Apples and pears stay in heavy rotation too. Reliable crunch dealers. And perfect vehicles for nut butter.

    Plus I love dried fruits!! Charcuterie boards are my ultimate meal. Especially figs and dates! I adore fresh figs too— they are very pretty!

    My boyfriend has also gotten me hooked on dehydrated fruits (thanks to Top Chef!) so I can easily polish those apple/ banana chips off without the guilt (there is literally only one ingredient— no added sugars or oils)

    I am weird as hell about texture and I own it. If it is mushy, it is dead to me. Overripe pears, peaches, nectarines — straight to the trash or the compost. I want bite. That satisfying resistance before the juice explodes. Give me a pear that fights back. A peach that still has attitude. Nectarines with actual structure.

    Semi-green bananas? Hell yes. That starchy, firm snap is elite. Perfectly ripe is a myth peddled by people who enjoy sadness in their mouth. I prefer borderline unripe over sloppy any day

    This is no cute “healthy eating” talk. It is fuel. Fruit is not some gentle wellness trend. It is raw, seasonal, messy joy that reminds you that you are alive.In complete disregard for those around me, I literally have an entire meal. of just fruits at times.If it was acceptable, I would only eat fruits! As for now, I will keep devouring it like a savage while the mush-lovers suffer in silence.

    Photo credit to @PeytonElroy on X.com
  • Beef Tallow: The Timeless Fat Making a Modern Comeback

    Beef Tallow: The Timeless Fat Making a Modern Comeback

    In a world obsessed with the latest superfoods and wellness trends, sometimes the best ingredients are the oldest ones. Beef tallow—rendered beef fat—has been used for centuries in cooking, skincare, and household goods. Today, it is experiencing a resurgence as people seek natural, stable alternatives to highly processed seed oils. Whether you are a home cook, skincare enthusiast, or simply curious about traditional fats, beef tallow deserves a spot in your pantry (and maybe your beauty routine).

    Beef tallow is the rendered (melted and purified) fat from beef, typically from suet (the hard fat around the kidneys and loins) or trimmings. When rendered properly, it becomes a creamy, white-to-pale-yellow solid at room temperature that melts easily for cooking.

    Its fatty acid profile includes a mix of saturated fats (like palmitic and stearic acid), monounsaturated fats (like oleic acid), and some polyunsaturated fats. It also naturally contains fat-soluble vitamins A, D, E, and K, especially when sourced from grass-fed cattle.

    Before vegetable oils dominated supermarket shelves in the 20th century, tallow was a kitchen staple. Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans used it for skincare and soaps. Traditional cooks relied on it for frying, baking, and preserving food due to its stability.

    Fast food chains like McDonald’s famously fried French fries in beef tallow until the 1990s for superior flavor and crispiness. Sounds amazing, right?!  Now, as concerns about ultra-processed oils grow, tallow is back on menus and in home kitchens.

    A tablespoon of beef tallow provides about 115 calories, mostly from fat. It is stable at high heat and contains no trans fats when rendered cleanly. Grass-fed versions offer more conjugated linoleic acid (CLA) and vitamins.

    Potential benefits:

    • High smoke point (around 400°F/204°C), making it excellent for frying without breaking down into harmful compounds.
    • Rich flavor that enhances savory dishes.
    • May support skin barrier function when used topically due to fatty acids. 

    Beef tallow excels in high-heat applications:

    • Frying: Crispy French fries, chicken, or fish and chips with restaurant-quality results.
    • Searing: Perfect crust on steaks or burgers.
    • Roasting: Toss vegetables or potatoes for golden, flavorful sides.
    • Baking: Use in pie crusts, biscuits, or cookies for flakiness and subtle richness.

    It adds a savory depth that vegetable oils cannot match.

    I have not personally tried it (yet ), but tallow’s composition closely mimics human skin oils, making it a popular natural moisturizer. Fans report it helps with dryness, eczema, and even acne for some due to its non-comedogenic properties in pure form. It can be used as a balm, lip moisturizer, or base for DIY soaps and candles. 

    Beef tallow represents a return to whole, traditional foods. It is versatile, flavorful, and nutrient-dense when used thoughtfully. Source it from reputable, grass-fed suppliers for the best quality, and enjoy it as part of a balanced diet.

    Whether you are frying up dinner or soothing dry skin, this “liquid gold” might just become your new kitchen (and bathroom) essential. 

  • Forget Diet Rules: Enjoy Ray Peat’s Nutrient-Rich Approach

    Forget Diet Rules: Enjoy Ray Peat’s Nutrient-Rich Approach

    You know that heavy, bloated, “I just swallowed a brick” feeling after smashing a carb- or protein-loaded meal? Yeah, that is not happening to me anymore. So I ditched the rules and went full “Eat Whatever the Fuck I Want” — and for me, that means going Ray Peat/ paleo.

    This is not some calorie-counting prison or macro-obsessed cult. It is a pro-metabolic, bioenergetic middle finger to the standard “choke down kale” or chicken breasts for every meal bullshit. Basically it is a scientific excuse for me to indulge in my dainty way of enjoying all sorts of goodies. 

    Developed by the late biologist Dr. Ray Peat, it is all about cranking your metabolism, supporting your thyroid, balancing hormones (more progesterone, less estrogen and cortisol chaos), and keeping inflammation down.

    Peat basically said most of our problems — fatigue, stubborn fat, hormonal issues, premature aging — boil down to one thing: a sluggish metabolism. I am 100% on board with that diagnosis.

    The goal is to create a safe, energy-rich environment inside your body with easy-to-digest, nutrient-dense foods that let your cells actually produce energy instead of just being stressed. 

    The Core Rules (that I mostly follow when I feel like it):

    • Carbs are king. Simple sugars from fruit, juice, honey, and sugar. Enough of the “sugar is poison” crowd — I am loading up on orange juice, mangoes, papayas, cherries, melons, ripe berries, and apples. I adore fruits!  Fast fuel, vitamins, minerals, antioxidants. Tastes like victory.
    • Saturated fats over everything. Butter, coconut oil, ghee, full-fat dairy, cocoa butter. Seed oils (canola, soy, sunflower, corn) are straight-up toxic according to Peat. I avoid that industrial sludge (I write about this, here).
    • Smart sources of protein: This is an aspect of my diet that I do not particularly prioritize. I am not some big hulking man   Gelatin, collagen, bone broth, shellfish, oysters, eggs, and dairy. I could see myself enjoying a nice cup of bone broth for lunch. 
    • Dairy is back and might be a new favorite: Milk, cheese, ice cream — preferably full-fat and high quality. Cheese. My new obsession.
    • Root veggies and well-cooked starches. Potatoes, sweet potatoes (I LOVE ME SOME SWEET POTATO!), carrots, squash. Cooked fully so your gut will not throw a tantrum.
    • Coffee, salt, sugar (in reason), and constant fluids. My black espresso still fits. Peat loved it with milk and sugar anyway.
    • Avoid the inflammatory: Most grains, legumes, raw cruciferous veggies,  fatty fish, and all that processed garbage loaded with iron and additives.

    Peat said eat frequently — no fasting, no severe restriction — to keep blood sugar and energy steady. Here is where we clash: I still love fasting and eating like a dainty fairy princess who barely needs calories to look after her man, run the house, and do activaties like Pilates. But I am playing with the Peaty principles because they feel better for me. 

    He wants you eating to appetite, 4-6 times a day, pairing protein with carbs and fat. I love to get these protein and fats in through avocado and nut butters for dipping, but I will never eat more than once a day (plus an evening snack). Plus, he suggests cooking everything well. I will cook most things well… but tartare and sushi still hit my personal menu because rules are suggestions when they taste good.

    People on this way of eating report better energy, thyroid function, digestion, skin, hair, hormones, and way fewer cravings. Ray Peat himself lived to 86, slamming orange juice and ice cream while most diet gurus look like they are one kale smoothie from the grave.

    Critics scream it is”too much sugar,” lacks big clinical trials, and laughs in the face of mainstream advice to avoid sat fat and eat more fiber. I love that part. If the mainstream says it, I am already suspicious.

    It might not work for everyone — dairy issues, specific conditions, etc. Talk to a doctor before you go full rebel, blah blah.

    Bottom line: This is a flexible framework inspired by Peat’s work (raypeat.com has the deep dives). I am not following it like scripture — I am stealing the parts that make me feel alive, energetic, and less bloated while still indulging my sweet tooth (plus I am stealing most of my dietary “rules” from the cavemen— paleo— but with a bit more sweetness). 

    So I stopped feeling weighted down. I would rather feel light, sharp, and fueled by fruit, ice cream, and spite.

  • My Cringey, Hungry, Blonde Obsession Years

    My Cringey, Hungry, Blonde Obsession Years

    When I was young, I was obsessed with Britney Spears (another basic bitch tendency). I know today she is a total mess, but there was a time when my walls were covered in pictures of her—I was straight-up obsessed with Britney Spears. The one with the flat stomach, tiny outfits, and that “Hit Me Baby One More Time” schoolgirl fantasy that made every pre-teen’s hormones go haywire.

    My bedroom walls were a full-on Britney shrine. Posters from floor to ceiling, magazine cutouts taped up in my closet. I wanted to be her — that perfect blend of innocent and filthy, the girl every guy wanted and every girl secretly envied. People definitely thought I was a lesbian back then. I mean, can you blame them? I was plastering my room with images of a half-naked pop princess. 

    And yes, I took it to the extreme. During the darkest days of my eating disorder, I followed her old workout routine religiously. Twelve hundred sit-ups a day. That was my way of insuring that I was working off every calorie I was forced to eat. No exaggeration. I would lie on my living room floor, starving, counting every crunch while imagining my stomach getting as flat and tight as hers. (Sometimes it would be until two in the morning and then I would be up at six). That kind of obsession is not cute — it is unhinged. But at the time it felt like devotion. Britney was my thinspiration, my goddess, my unattainable fuck-you to my own body.

    Then eighth grade hit and I had a full personality 180. I ditched the pop princess fantasy and became the ultimate “surfer girl.” Still skinny, but not glitzy and glamorous. You know the type — sun-bleached hair, golden skin (spray on tans FTW), that effortless, just-fucked beach vibe. I traded in my old wardrobe for head-to-toe Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister. I lived in those graphic tees and low-rise jeans that sat dangerously on my hip bones. I wanted to look like I just rolled out of a beach bonfire with sand still in my hair and saltwater on my skin.

    I begged my parents to send me to surfing camp in California. I actually went all the way to Australia chasing that fantasy life. I studied the skinny beach bum girls like they were my new religion — the ones with long, tangled blonde hair, tiny bikini bodies, and that lazy, seductive way they carried themselves. I dyed my hair with platinum blonde streaks and spent hours perfecting the windswept look. I wanted to be the girl guys stared at while I walked down the beach carrying a surfboard, all tan legs and collarbones. 

    This was right in the middle of my most extreme anorexic era, too. The thinner I got, the better my “surfer girl” costume fit. My hip bones jutted out, my thighs did not touch, and my stomach was concave enough to make those Abercrombie shorts hang just right. I was starving myself into the aesthetic. Every wave I caught, every mile I ran, every skipped meal was part of the transformation. I was not just playing dress-up — I was trying to disappear into this fantasy version of myself: blonde, effortless, desired, and dangerously thin.

    Looking back, it was wild how seamlessly I went from worshipping Britney’s polished, sexy pop-star body to chasing the raw, sun-drenched, barely-there surfer chick fantasy. Both versions of me were starving — literally and figuratively — for the same thing: to be wanted. To be the fantasy. To be the girl that made people lose their minds a little.

    I chased that high hard. From bedroom Britney dances to riding waves, bleaching my hair until it snapped, and counting every single sit-up like it would bring me closer to perfection.

    Those years were intense, messy, desperate for attention, and strangely formative.

  • Organically Made

    Organically Made

    You all know that I am obsessed with organic foods. My distrust of the food industry runs deep—processed junk loaded with seed oils, additives, and mystery chemicals that wreck our metabolism, hormones, and energy. I believe in choosing clean, supportive fuel that helps our bodies thrive rather than fight constantly. Today, I want to apply that same scrutiny to everything I put in or on my body.

    But clothes? For the longest time, I gave them a pass. Sure, I knew polyester was basically plastic—petroleum-derived trash that is cheap to produce and insanely profitable for brands. They just slap a high price tag on something made from recycled water bottles while our skin pays the real cost. (Hence why I never bought into recycling!)

    I understood it traps heat, does not breathe, and sheds microplastics everywhere. But I shrugged it off. I was always a fashionista at heart. As long as I looked good for pictures, I did not care about what I was doing to my health. Until recently.

    Polyester (and its synthetic counterparts like nylon, spandex, and acrylic) is not just uncomfortable. It is problematic for health, especially hormones. These fabrics are loaded with or treated using endocrine-disrupting chemicals: phthalates, BPA, antimony, PFAS “forever chemicals,” and more. When you sweat, move, or just wear them all day, these can leach onto your skin and get absorbed, especially during workouts or in warm conditions.

    They mimic estrogen, mess with thyroid function, progesterone balance, fertility, and more. Microplastics shed with every wash and wear (hundreds of thousands per load) end up in our water, air, dust, and eventually our bodies. Research links this chronic exposure to inflammation, metabolic issues, and hormonal chaos—the exact opposite of the pro-metabolic, high-energy life I am going for.

    It is the clothing version of eating ultra-processed junk. Brands love it because it is dirt cheap and durable in a “will not biodegrade for 200+ years” kind of way. We are literally strapping plastic to our bodies for convenience and aesthetics.

    I used to roll my eyes at hemp, organic cotton, linen, and similar natural fabrics. They screamed crunchy granola, hipster vibes—flowy dresses, scratchy textures, and overpriced “ethical” lines that felt more performative than practical.

    Until now.

    After digging deeper (and begging my boyfriend to let me try some pieces), I get it. These are not hippie relics; they are superior, science-backed upgrades that align perfectly with a distrust-the-industry, body-honoring lifestyle.

    • Hemp: Incredibly durable (stronger and longer-lasting than cotton), naturally antimicrobial and UV-protective, breathable, and softens with wear. It requires minimal water/pesticides to grow, improves soil, and is biodegradable. Feels cooling and fresh—perfect for everyday wear without the plastic sweat-trap.
    • Organic Cotton: Soft, hypoallergenic, breathable. No toxic pesticides or GMOs like conventional cotton. Gentle on sensitive skin and does not hold onto odors or bacteria like synthetics.
    • Linen (from flax): The ultimate summer fabric—highly breathable, moisture-wicking, and antibacterial. It gets softer over time and has a beautiful, lived-in drape that looks effortlessly chic now, not dated.

    These fabrics support your body’s natural regulation: better temperature control, less irritation, no chemical leaching. They biodegrade instead of polluting forever. And once you experience how they feel—light, non-clingy, skin-friendly—you will never go back.

    This doesn’t mean overnight wardrobe overhaul or spending thousands.

    Start small— like making sure your loungewear and whatever you spend most time wearing is natural. Read labels!  I will no longer have my man buy me a date outfit that is made of plastic no matter how cute (because it will make me cold and uncomfortable), but I still wear leggings every day for my workouts so we have work to do!

    It feels empowering, just like choosing ripe fruit, fresh dairy, and avoiding PUFAs. Your skin, hormones, and peace of mind will thank you.

  • From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    I will say it out loud, no shame: I used to want to be a full-on Sugar Baby. Not the cheap fantasy version you see online, but the real thing—pampered, polished, and possessed by a man who could afford to keep me dripping in luxury and attention. I was never on Seeking Arrangements or any of those sites, but when I got really sick, that dream became my secret lifeline. While my body was failing me, my mind was busy painting a future where I was not disabled anymore. I imagined myself as this feminine goddess: luscious long hair cascading down my back, completely hairless and smooth everywhere that mattered, skinny, full makeup—the whole package. The kind of girl men could not look away from.

    I joined a private Facebook group full of girls who knew exactly how to weaponize their femininity. They taught me how to dress, how to move, how to speak, how to flirt with power and money. Every post, every tip, every “how to make him obsessed” thread lit a fire under me. It gave me something to fight for on the worst days. While I was stuck in a wheelchair, I was mentally rehearsing the version of me that would turn heads and drain wallets. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to be admired. Craved. Spoiled. Chosen. Deep down, I did not feel worthy of any of it yet—but that fantasy made me believe I could be.

    And then… it actually happened.

    When we first connected on Twitter (yes, Twitter, before Elon Musk saved us with X) the sugar baby lifestyle was all that I hoped for and I absolutely was not looking for anything real. Commitment? Hard pass. Feelings? Too risky. But attention and shiny new toys? Those I could handle. So that was what I settled for. I strung him along, playing it cool, dropping hints about what I wanted without ever sounding desperate. He read between the lines perfectly.

    He knew the game from the jump. I gave him a PO Box instead of my real address at first—safety first,—and every single week, like clockwork, a new package would show up. AirPods? Delivered with a cheeky video of him on the Apple website ordering them while I was lounging in Cabo, both of us convinced our flirty Twitter phase was fizzling out. A Pretty Woman DVD (yes, an actual physical DVD, the man has taste and nostalgia). Barstool Sports gear for days because we bonded hard over the unfiltered sports talk that made us both laugh like idiots. He spoiled me rotten, and I let him. No guilt. No apologies.

    Every girl should experience sugar baby vibes at least once. There is something powerfully feminine about being pursued, pampered, and provided for while you keep your little heart in a little locked box. The hundred-dollar Venmos, the surprise drops, the thrill of knowing he is thinking about you every time he swipes his card—it is intoxicating. It is not just about the stuff. It is the power dynamic. The way it makes you feel desired, expensive, worth the chase.

    But then it got real. 

    The constant contact—the good-morning texts, the voice notes that made me smirk in public, the weekends that turned into three hour-long FaceTime coffee dates—started cracking my walls. What began as “he buys me things, I give him attention” slowly became I can’t quit him. The sugar daddy arrangement was the gateway drug, but the real addiction was him. His humor. His voice. The way he matched my chaotic energy and then some.

    Now? He still pays my bills. No more random Venmos, but the support is deeper, steadier, sexier in its reliability. He is not just a sugar daddy anymore—he is my man. My love. My favorite person on the planet.

    Yet those Baby and Daddy vibes? They never left. They evolved into something deliciously playful and immature that keeps the spark filthy and fun.

    We act like absolute children together. The kind of childish that involves wrestling over the remote (when we are physically together), ridiculous nicknames, and the kind of uncontrollable laughter that turns into happy tears and breathless squeals. I have never laughed as hard in my life as I do with him. The squeals he pulls out of me—they are embarrassing and addictive. When we first started talking, I used to slap my hand over my mouth— hiding my crooked smile from his view. We are talking full-on belly laughs that leave my abs sore and my face hurting. Pure, unfiltered joy. The man makes me happy in a way I did not know was possible. The kind of happy that makes you glow, that makes everyone side-eye you like, “Who the hell are you right now?”

    There is something profoundly hot about a relationship that can go from “Daddy’s spoiling his baby” to deep, soul-quenching love without losing the playfulness. The power exchange is still there. He provides, I tease. He leads, I challenge. He has me feeling both safe and completely unraveled.  A feeling I never expected. I thought that I would be the other woman. Or a sugar baby. Not the main event. 

    So if a man is willing to show up for you like that—financially, emotionally, playfully—do not be afraid to lean in. Sugar baby energy is not about being shallow; it is about knowing your worth and letting someone prove they can match it. And when the gifts turn into genuine love, when the “arrangement” becomes “forever,” it hits different. Deeper. Wetter. Louder.

    I went from stringing him along with a PO Box to being completely, stupidly in love with the man who still makes me feel like the most spoiled and cherished woman alive—went from a sick girl who did not feel worthy of being looked at to the woman who gets spoiled, and loved so intensely/passionately it leaves me ruined for anyone else.

    And those squeals? They are just getting started.

  • Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    We have all heard it. We have all said it. “Man, things were better back then.” People are always yearning for the good old days—start appreciating everything today:

    Nostalgia is not a memory—it is a seductive liar.

    It edits out the bad.

    The ugly.

    We airbrush the boredom, the limited choices, the untreated depression, the rotten teeth (yay for healthcare!) and the way information trickled so slowly that ignorance felt like wisdom. I kind of do wish we ladies were still dumb, though… I rely more on my man to know what is going on in the world so that I can just be delulu about things.

    And while we are busy pining for that heavily filtered past, the actual miracles are all around us right now. We are living in the most abundant, connected, opportunistic era in human history, and most of us are too busy doom-scrolling and whining to notice.

    Technology seems to be sprinting. AI that writes better essays than most college students. Instant access to the entire library of human knowledge in your pocket. You can video call your grandmother on another continent while ordering takeout that arrives piping hot. And still, people scroll past miracles to complain that their coffee order took four minutes instead of three.

    This change terrifies people. It always has. That is why every generation thinks the next one is doomed. But here is my hot take: your nostalgia is a coping mechanism for your fear of the unknown. It is easier to idealize 1997 than confront 2026. People are afraid. What is going to happen tomorrow or next month?

    It seems easier to romanticize rotary phones than master and learn the new tools.

    Stop yearning. Start appreciating—aggressively.

    The secret is not in the past. It is in the lens. Shift it—or stay miserable.

    Look at your smartphone not as a distraction device but as a doorway for wonder. With it, you can learn a language in weeks, watch a live surgery in Tokyo, or hear the voice of someone who died decades ago (I know… Creepy.) We treat these luxuries like it is normal. It is not. It is insane.

    We find food in our grocery stores from every corner of the world. Planes and automobiles have actually united us. We consume other cultures and cuisines. This is the true meaning of America.

    Surgery and modern medicine (despite its faults) make it absolutely insane to continue complaining about the small aches and pains. Some of us do not even walk; are you really going to cry about a hangnail?

    The internet has also demolished geographic and social barriers. You can meet your person- someone who actually matches your weird frequency- instead of settling for the least awful option within a 10-mile radius. I personally would despise settling down with someone from around here. The old days had arranged marriages and shotgun weddings. We now have sad dating apps and yes, we rate each other based on our looks. So yes, trade-offs exist, but pretending the past was pure romance is historical fan-fiction.

    In a culture addicted to outrage and comparison, choosing to appreciate the present is rebellious. It is punk rock. It flips off the algorithm that profits from dissatisfaction. People really do love to complain, criticize, and comment.

    Essentially, the world is blossoming with possibility while you are staring at old yearbooks. One thing that has always bothered me is that most of our bodies are a biological marvel capable of running, dancing, orgasming, and healing—and yet people are mad about theirs not looking like a filtered influencer. It is called do something about it—if a disabled girl can lose more than one hundred pounds, you can do anything. The body is truly a marvel.

    The mind is too.
    Your mind can comprehend quantum physics (or silly girly things—like writing a blog!) and write love poems, yet you use it to relive 2008 politics.

    The good old days are a trap. They keep you small, bitter, and blind to the abundance screaming for your attention. Every moment you spend mourning a myth is a moment stolen from building something better.

    The world is changing so fast that if you blink too long in nostalgia, you will miss the best parts of being alive right here, right now. The coffee is hot. The internet works—until the power goes out, because living in the woods is great. Your heart is beating. The future is wide open.

    Appreciate it all—fiercely, obnoxiously, unapologetically.

    Or keep complaining. The past will not care, and the present will keep delivering miracles whether you notice them or not.

    The choice is yours. But only one of them feels like living.

  • Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.

    I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).

    A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.

    Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.

    I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.

    I will not be synthetically made better.  
    I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.  
    Only the natural way.  
    Only the forever way.

    And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.

    This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.

    In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.

    This is how I love.  
    This is how I fight.  
    This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive.

  • Finding Balance: Nature vs. Modern Medicine in Healing

    Finding Balance: Nature vs. Modern Medicine in Healing

    The TV series Lost (2004–2010) was not just some island survival drama. It was a raw showdown between science and faith. It pitted sterile reason, lab coats, and control freaks against destiny and miracles. It involved surrendering to something far bigger. 

    Jack Shephard, the spinal surgeon and control-obsessed leader, was the ultimate “man of science.” He demanded explanations for everything. He worshipped logic and scalpels. He refused to believe in anything he could not cut open or medicate. Fix it with your hands, your drugs, your ego. That was his religion.

    John Locke? The paralyzed guy who stood up and walked after the crash. Pure “man of faith.” He saw the island’s hand in everything. The crash was not bad luck (like my brain bleed!)— it was a calling. He followed signs, intuition, and the island’s will instead of bowing to sterile facts and scientific predictions.

    Fast-forward to today: We are drowning in quick-fix pills, billion-dollar diagnostics, and Big Pharma.

    Count me out. 

    A growing number of us are waking up. We feel the deep, primal pull back to nature — the real healer. Trust your body’s ancient wisdom. Use plants, sunlight, and real food. Enjoy fresh air and embrace lifestyle changes. Do this instead of letting white coats experiment on you like lab rats. 

    Why stay a compliant “normie,” swallowing whatever the white coat cult prescribes? Modern medicine celebrates its success in eliminating smallpox. Thus, allowing it to quietly poison generations with chemicals, side effects, and dependency. 

    Nature does not even need a patent. It does not need clinical trials funded by the same companies that profit from keeping you sick. The Earth was not designed for our failure — it already holds every answer we need. We do not require priests in lab coats to “discover” what has been growing in the dirt and shining in the sky for millions of years.

    Pill over-reliance is a scam. It ignores obvious issues like shitty diets, chronic stress, toxin overload, and living like disconnected zombies. Modern medicine is decent at trauma and emergencies — sure, sew up the wound, stabilize the crash victim. But for everything else, it is a meat grinder. It treats humans like broken machines on a conveyor belt. It completely misses the soul and the root.

    This is not an innocent debate. It is a war for your ability to speak out. Especially after the Covid shitshow exposed how “science” can be bought, censored, and weaponized by institutions that value power and profit over truth and lives.

    Funny thing: many “miracle” drugs started in nature — aspirin from willow bark, penicillin from mold, chemo from plants. Then science got hold of them. It isolated the “active ingredient” and patented it. Then it jacked up the dose (and the price). This process thus turned the remedies into slow-acting poison. 

    Humans healed themselves with herbs, diet, movement, and connection to the wild for thousands of years before any lab existed. Traditional systems around the world knew this instinctively.

    Today, herbal medicine, acupuncture, forest bathing, and raw primal living still work. They are not fighting your biology — they are working with it. 

    I will say it plainly: I want the caveman life. Sun on my skin, dirt under my nails, real food, real movement, no plastic toxins, no endless prescriptions. Get me as close to that ancestral truth as possible.

    Science even admits it when it is not busy gatekeeping. Time in nature drops stress hormones. It lowers blood pressure. It also supercharges your immune system with measurable results. People feel empowered when they take control through nutrition, sleep, and exercise. They benefit by rejecting environmental poisons instead of sitting passively. They stop waiting for the next diagnosis and pill.

    The island is still speaking. 

    Are you listening… or still waiting for permission from your doctor?