Posts Filed Under Stop acting like an asshat and I’ll stop judging you.

When was it exactly that we lost our humanity?

by renegademama

The other day I happened upon a post in my town’s “community” Facebook group. It was a photo of an apple and sandwich next to a light post, and above it was the comment “I guess if it doesn’t buy drugs, the homeless in our town don’t want it.” And then it was like a rage face emoji.

Apparently this woman had given food to a homeless person the day before, then happened upon it the next day, in the same location, clearly abandoned by the recipient.

Because I hate myself, I clicked on the comments. The first 90 thousand were iterations of the same concept: Homeless people who take $1 to buy whiskey are losers and don’t deserve our money.

Here’s a summary of the rest of what I read:

Homeless people who buy meth are even worse.

Refusing food makes them ungrateful trash people.

They are trash people because of bad decisions.

They are there because they are bottom-feeding addicts.

Local businesses shouldn’t allow homeless near their dumpsters or bathrooms because “it encourages them.” 

If they’re mentally ill, they should go to the doctor and GET SOME MEDS! “I know all kinds of mentally ill people who hold down jobs!” (<<<<That was a direct quote.<<<)

One genius pointed out that “homeless people don’t need to look so awful. They can wake up each morning and go to the Wayfarer center and get clean and tidy.”

To that woman, I simply say: “I hope you get hit by a large free-falling boulder, you fucking asshole.”

But to the rest, I’d like to chat. I’d like to have a quick convo about this whole “deserving homeless” situation, because I have to say, I really wonder when it was exactly that we lost our humanity.

When was it that we started looking at human beings living on the streets for whatever reason and our response is: “Could you please make yourself more presentable? You are unfortunate on my eyes.”

And when did we convince ourselves that we are some sort of Mother Teresa because we hand somebody a dollar. IT IS A DOLLAR. If you care so much about what the recipient does with the dollar, perhaps you shouldn’t be giving it away.

Clearly that dollar means way too much to you.

And you know these people drip in self-congratulatory declarations of their own “altruism.” You know what altruism is? Giving with no expectation of return.

And yes, expecting that the recipient graciously accept, appreciate, or spend the money on what you deem HOLY and RIGHT and GOOD is in fact demanding a return.

So here’s you: “I believe myself to be a deep and generous person and to confirm that, I will offer you something, but we need to be clear: I’m not doing this for YOU. I’m doing this for ME. If I were doing it for YOU, I wouldn’t give a fuck what you do with my dollar.”

Oh, I know. I know. Enabling! We are enabling the homeless by offering a dollar so they can buy a pint. Maybe.

But maybe they are going to buy tampons. Or French fries. Or maybe they needed that pint to kill the alcoholic withdrawal that would have killed them. MAYBE YOU SAVED THEIR LIVES WITH THAT PINT.

Okay, I’m being hyperbolic. But my point is real: We can’t control the outcome of our attempts to help others, and most attempts to do so are simply a way to feed our egos.

In other words, I’m going to give you this $1 so I can feel good about myself. The moment the recipient doesn’t participate in feeding our egos, we fucking hate them.


Seriously. Get off that Good Samaritan pedestal.

Here’s what I want to know, pedestal people: If you want to give a dollar, why don’t you do it simply because they are quite obviously not doing as well as you are?

If we have it, why don’t we give it because it’s nice to have an extra dollar?

Who the hell cares why they’re standing on a corner mumbling to themselves and asking for change? Bad decisions, drug addiction, alcoholism…does it matter? I mean, does it really matter? Is the central point of the situation altered in any way whatsoever?

No. No it is not. Because the central point of “giving” is that when you have a little extra, you share it. The central point is that no matter how you cut it, the person standing on the corner in dirty clothes, begging, is, generally speaking, a bit down on their luck and even IF they simply made 12,000 bad decisions beginning at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1985 and ending here, can’t we all appreciate a human who isn’t doing so hot?

Look, I know. I know you have never been that pathetically human before. How do I know? Because you’ve obviously lost touch with what it means to be human.

If you see a person filthy and sunburned and cracked in heart and face, sucking on a cigarette in piss-stained clothes, holding a sign asking for change, and all you think is: “Well that person is clearly a drunk.”

My god. You know what? Save your change. You’re gonna need it in hell. Maybe you can throw some green at Satan and get your fucking soul back.

Damn it. I promised myself I’d stay chill about this. But I’m telling you, it rips my heart out. How did we become these people?

It’s not a bleeding heart thing. It’s not some “liberal” thing. Look. I hate liberals almost as much as I hate conservatives. This is a goddamn HUMAN thing. When did we lose touch with some basic love? Basic concern? Basic goodness toward the people around us?

And I don’t give money to everyone asking for it. When I see a group of 20-year-olds chilling with their pit-bulls and skate boards, bright-eyed and scrollin’ their iPhones, asking me for money because they did too much blow at Coachella, I’m like, nah.

Why? Because I am not Jesus, and they irritate me.


But we don’t have to be Jesus. We just have to be decent.

Give or don’t give. Do what you do. But don’t give for “altruism” then blame the recipient for not catering to YOU.


At one point I had to stop reading the comments. These people were talking about the homeless, mentally ill, and drug-addicted in our community as the “filth” of our world, as if they were not even humans at all, as if cycles of addiction and poverty do not exist, as if they could get out of the whole homeless predicament if they were just better people.

Oh, you mean like you?

Like the commenter who said she was disgusted at a fast food restaurant for giving a filthy homeless man a cup of water and letting him sit at a table? She wrote, “that’s more than I want to share with a homeless person.”

(The filth rubs off, I guess.)

Space. That’s more than she wants to share.

That’s more than she wants to share with our brothers and sisters who are sick, cold, tired, and hungry. And that hunger isn’t always for food. Some of us are dying from a hunger in the soul, so sick we don’t even remember apples nourish the body.

I guess as a recovering addict I see myself in those watery eyes. But I think if we looked hard enough, we’d all see ourselves in those eyes.

When I hand a drunk a dollar, I want to say, “Hey man, buy the whiskey. I hope you get what you need.”

I know what we need isn’t in the bottle, but I can’t tell him that.

I know it’s in our shared humanity, and I can show him that. For a second, at least.

Or not. It’s just a fucking dollar.

It’s nice to have one to give.


Join me in June for the last “Write Anyway” workshop of 2017!

(The rest of my year is slammed and I can’t do another.)

There are 8 spots left. Snag one!

Dear children: Please stop tormenting baby animals and the rest of the humans, thanks.

by renegademama

One of the main reasons I started this blog is because every time I go anywhere with the standard human population, I feel at times like an alien, particularly among other parents and their kids. Parents seem way more into this than I am, and their kids kind of seem like dicks. In general.

Sorry, but true.

Look, I don’t looooove being called a “breeder,” because surely there is little more to parenthood than fucking and birthing and nursing like a goddamn border collie, and I think the phrase “child-free” is rather hilarious in its connotation that kids are some sort of unpleasant condition to avoid, like lice or debt or termites.

On the other hand, the term is a reaction to “child-LESS,” which implies a lacking, which reflects the way society looks at people without kids as less than and deficient, which is also clearly bullshit.

As an optimist, I feel we could find some middle ground between KIDS ARE THE MEANING OF LIFE and KIDS ARE HEAD LICE.

But whatever. I’ve always been a dreamer.


Honestly, I get why a portion of the child-free crew hates us though.

I would too.

In fact, I already do, and I am firmly planted in “breeder” status.

Because on the whole, parents can be pretty obnoxious and we often do it with an air of pretense, running around sure we have more fulfilling lives while our kids ruin your dinner (which we already discussed).

I often think, my god, if I were judging all parents by this sight, I WOULD NEVER HAVE KIDS. 

Take the other day, for example. I went to a petting zoo at a pumpkin patch with my kid’s first-grade class, where I saw a few kids in a pen with a baby cow.

Um, calf. It’s called a calf. I’m so country.

Anyway, I’m chaperoning along with 75% of the rest of the kids’ parents, and I’m standing outside the pen watching these kids with the calf. There are five kids in a small enclosure with the animal, and three of them are tormenting the shit out of the poor thing.

They’re squealing and tapping his head and darting this way and that, running in circles, and you can see the poor calf getting confused and agitated with no escape from the little bastards.

I look around and see at least three parents watching this and doing nothing.

I immediately remember why I hate people.


To make it worse, I realize the worst two offending kids’ parents are standing right there, and I think, well I shouldn’t say anything because thou shalt not parent other people’s children, but then I realized NOPE this is bullshit. I’m not going to watch this happen.

I’m not the police. I give very few fucks about what other people do. But this is an innocent animal. This ain’t right.

So I tell the kids, “Hey you all need to stop running around. You need to stand there and gently pet the cow or get out of the pen. You are tormenting him.”

Kids: “What does that mean?”

Me: “It means you are teasing him in a mean way. You are hurting him. “

And as an aside to the lady next to me, I say, “They’re like fucking bull-fighters in Madrid right now.” She didn’t think I was funny. As usual.

The kids stop. The parents do nothing. One kind of glared at me.

I walk away.

From across the barn, I see them immediately doing it again, and again the parents say nothing. I walk over to really lay it down because now I’m fucking angry. But luckily, my friend saw it too and actually went INTO the pen and physically stopped the kids and was showing them how to not be evil. She renewed my faith.

Oh thank god. We’re not all crazy.

And we aren’t.

And I guess there are people in every corner who are self-centered and ignorant, kids or no kids, but I truly don’t understand how parents don’t think it’s their job to teach their kids not to harm others.

Is that not basic decency?

Do they think it’s cute? Do they truly not notice? I’m no genius, but one thing that’s clearer to me than anything is when my kids are being annoying. Because they are annoying ME first and foremost, I can only imagine what they’re doing to innocent bystanders.

And an animal? Fuck.

Sorry, animals. And humans.

In conclusion. Dear parents: Please teach your kids not to torment adorable fuzzy baby animals who have no escape and never asked to be subjected to your kid in the first place.

I should write a parenting advice column.

I could call it, “Captain Fucking Obvious.”

Or, “You would know this if you’d pull your head out of your ass.”

But only you people would read it, and you already get it, so never mind.

Thanks for being an alien with me, with or without kids.

Thanks for your total dedication to not raising kids who fuck with the rest of us.

We can do this, America! I am a dreamer!



Hey look! It’s a kid not being mean to an animal at a petting zoo! Wheeeeee!

I have an idea: Let’s stop telling women how to give birth

by renegademama

I recently read an article cleverly titled “You should get an epidural” (I know, I know I should have stopped there) that told a story about some “natural birther” who was rude to the writer in a grocery store. Apparently she asked the writer – WHILST STANDING IN A CHECKOUT LINE – how she planned on giving birth then shamed her for wanting an epidural. This is almost unbelievable in its fucked-upedness (yeah that’s a word).

Who the hell would do that? I’d like some stranger to ask me when I was visibly pregnant “how I planned on giving birth.” I’d be like, “On your face, asshole,” and leave.

But that’s irrelevant. The point here is that in response to her outrage at being told how she should give birth, she wrote an article telling women how they should give birth.

Because this is how we do in the interwebz.

Why god WHY?

She implies that women who want unmedicated birth are trying to “win” something and attempts to discredit the real and valid reasons people opt for unmedicated births by bolstering the benefits of epidural and invalidating the “science” stating that epidurals “slow down labor” with the words “but I’ve talked to a few doctors who say it speeds it up!”


Can we all please stop making shit up at random and calling it “evidence?”

Yes, that includes you, lady on the internet who declared that not leaving the placenta attached until it falls off on its own is an act of “violence.”

Yes, I read that. I read an actual human writing those actual words. I can only imagine how fun she is at dinner parties:

Non-Violent Placenta lady: “Oh! You just had a baby. What, pray tell, did you do with the placenta?”

Normal person: “Well I cut the cord and the doctor like, took it away.”

Aghast and appalled, Non-Violent Placenta Lady breaks down weeping right there next to the triple-cream brie.

I have an idea: Somewhere between one must let the placenta fall off untouched in soft moonlight and a choir of angels and FUCK THESE ANTI-EPIDURAL MARTYRDOM WANNABE HEROES is the land of Not Being a Dick.

Also known as, informing yourself and doing what is best for you and your baby and body and family.

Also known as, not caring how strangers birth their babies.

Also known as: Not being a dick.

Always, we’re back there. It’s like Oz. All roads lead to it.

This seems so reasonable, and yet, the nonsense prevails. We pick and choose data and statistics and studies. And we all know how I feel about those. We strategically ignore and omit and focus on this information over that information to prove our points and back our game.

There are valid and real and intelligent reasons to opt FOR and AGAINST epidurals.

And yet, rather than treating both options as sound decisions, there are actual people CRUSADING for and against the use of epidurals. Straight up ON A MISSION. People arguing that all women should have medication. People arguing that all women should have homebirths. To me, they’re all missing the fucking point.

Everybody keeps talking about women’s empowerment by demanding women do things THEIR way.

Am I the only one who sees a problem here?


Look, I gave birth four times, each time without an epidural and twice at home. Yes, I wanted a birth without an epidural, and yes, I wanted that adamantly, for myself. Not for you. I truly could not care less how you have your baby. In fact I can’t really think of anything that affects me less than how strangers have their babies.

I wanted births without epidurals because I am a control freak and wanted as much power over my body as physically possible. I wanted to move freely and birth how I wanted. I was MORE afraid of losing that power than I was of the pain of childbirth. Of course I do not looooooooove the pain, and I certainly didn’t “dance my baby out” (some hippie suggested I do that), and I may or may not have wanted to kick (gently! I love you!) my midwife on account of her infinitely soothing voice, but I was not really concerned about the pain.

Not because I am a martyr. Not because I believe Eve must be punished for her sins. Not because I’m anti-feminist and not because I hate doctors and not because I think YOU should do it. That’s just my preference.

Wait. Seriously, stop calling me a fucking martyr. I am not a martyr. Martyrs are heroes. I am not a hero. What am I fighting for? WOMEN ACROSS THE LAND?

Stop. There is nothing “heroic” about my choice. I was not particularly brave and I was not impressive and I was not trying to “prove a point” and I am not anti-epidural.

Which brings me to my next point: Having an epidural is not cowardly, unnatural, or un-“womanly” (whatever the fuck that means). In the past, I have used the term “natural” to describe “unmedicated.” I don’t do that anymore. It’s a loaded term. I apologize for not realizing that sooner. (On that, the writer of the article and I agree.)

To me, we’re all brave. And I don’t mean that in some cute woo-woo way. I mean it truthfully: We face a thing we are a little (or a lot) afraid of. All of us have grown up in a culture of fear surrounding childbirth. How that manifests in each of us will be unique, but universally, we face the unknown. Whether through surgery or birth at home or in a hospital, we face something infinitely new, with stakes higher than anything we’ve ever faced. And we have no choice. We walk in. We handle it.

That is bravery.

I felt safest with the littlest intervention as possible.

We get to define that for ourselves.

All this shit-slinging about choices is nothing more than self-righteousness masquerading as “helpfulness.” It’s not about other women. It’s not about new moms. It’s about THEMSELVES. It’s about their own damn choices. It’s about pretentiousness and insecurity.

Fun fact: People secure in their choices do not feel compelled to run around screaming how other people should be like them.

Oh, and BTW. If you’ve never had a child: Shut the hell up with your demands on my vagina/uterus/offspring. No, really. Shut the actual fuck up. Nobody cares.

I see people who made choices like mine treating women who get epidurals or planned caesareans as some sort of strange subspecies that barely loves their children let alone possesses the spiritual depth necessary to raise them. They act as if Ina May Gaskin is THE GODDESS of motherhood and we all must embrace her or die alone in parental wasteland.

Perhaps I’m overshooting the mark a tiny bit, but seriously.

You know what? Yes. I believe our maternal healthcare system is pretty fucked, and I believe it needs to change. But that will not happen by running around spewing orgasmic birth as The Only Way.

We have one job. We know what it is.


You know what I want? Women to have equal access to information and education to make informed choices that work for them. I want women to have doctors and midwives who explain the pros and cons of choices openly and honestly, treating women like they have brains in addition to vaginas. (I know, revolutionary.) I want women to be treated like humans, not cute little pets. I want women to be respected, validated, and heard. I want women to be the central player in the birth of their babies.

I want women to have POWER, however they define it.



We’re all warriors here. We can own that.


let’s be real: it’s all about the fucking newborn breath. omg newborns. I NEED ANOTHER BABY.

Can we all agree to teach our kids some freaking manners?

by renegademama

In most ways, I don’t really care how you raise your special snowflake. You probably don’t care how I raise mine. Go to church, don’t. Bottle feed breastfeed play soccer play video games eat organic eat McDonald’s be a vegan. Be Amanda Chantal No-Bacon Bacon. Whatever. I don’t care. I may talk a little shit about you on the internet, but these things do not affect me and I wish you all the best with your maca powder and activated cashews.

But can we all please, as parents, agree on a few things in the interest of creating a decent community?

Despite social media feeds claiming otherwise, parents can’t create perfection. We don’t have the power to save our kids from their fatal flaws, from the mistakes they’ll make to learn critical lessons, from heartbreak and breaking hearts and doing really stupid shit in their 20s. We can try. We can do our best to help them learn, but they are who they are and they will have what I like to call: Super Unfortunate Features.

This is a daunting reality. I hate this. It hurts. I watch my kids with certain personality situations and think, “Wow, that’s going to make life hard for them if they don’t knock that shit off,” and I tell them everything I know, and I let natural consequences happen to help them learn – I do everything I can – but on some level, kids are who they are and we can’t “fix” them into a No-Problem-Ever version.

I hate not having this control. I hate feeling powerless over the fact that my kids are going to grow into the humans they were meant to become, and some of us were meant to drop acid in Honduras when we’re fifteen. NOT THAT I DID THAT.

Anywho, since we don’t have omnipotent powers, it confuses me when parents don’t take advantage of the few things we have control over, such as, for example, COMMON DECENCY.


Basic kindness.

Not being a dick.

This is not hard. This is easy. This is like one area of parenting that isn’t complex and confusing and yet, not all parents do it.  Why? This is the “gimme” of parenting. The low-hanging fruit. The freebie.


And yet, so many assholes on the playground.

Here. Fine. Maybe we do something like this, all of us, every parent in America: “Hey kid. Don’t insult the way people eat, look, dress, or talk. Say ‘thank you’ when somebody gives you a gift.”

We could just start there and see what happens.

Is that hard? It doesn’t seem hard. And yet my kids are bombarded by kids with the manners of drunk uncles talking politics on Christmas.

My kid gets called all kinds of names, gets her lunch made fun pretty much daily, is terrified to wear anything “not pretty” because people “will make fun of her.” One of my other kids gave a “friend” from another class a Valentine and the kid in question scoffed and threw it side, asking, “Why are there only TWO candies?” My kid came home humiliated. I won’t even go into the shit my 14-year-old hears in junior high.

My kids are not perfect. They are annoying as hell sometimes. Especially in hotel rooms. They all have their “special features” that make me, on occasion, want to pummel them. Gently. Just a little.

But they have manners and know how to treat people with basic kindness because THIS IS A BASIC FUNCTION OF BEING A BASIC HUMAN and frankly we have “BASIC HUMAN” NAILED.

Basic human is my bitch.

Is it yours?

If not, why not? Why does it not matter to raise a human that functions on a  vaguely pleasant level with other humans? How the hell does a 10-year-old not know that when somebody hands you something pleasant, you say THANK YOU?

God almighty.

The other day my 5-year-old asked me about my belly. Something super subtle like, “Why is it so big?” It was an innocent observation, but still kind of a dick move, so, as her mother, I realized – like a fucking genius – that it’s my job to teach her something.

So I answered, “Because I have fat. But we don’t comment on other people’s bodies, honey. It’s rude.”

BOOM. IN THE BAG. Parenting goals. I walked outta that room like a superhero, teaching manners like a motherfucking ninja.

Do ninjas teach manners? Probably not. Sorry. I’m mixing my similes.

A few days later, somebody called her “fat” at school and told her they “hate” her pants.

Would you walk up to somebody and say, “Your pants are stupid. I hate them.”?

 Or, “Your lunch is disgusting!”

I didn’t think so.

(And if you would, please stop reading. We’re done here.)


Clearly not everybody is doing their part here. Why have kids if you aren’t willing to help them grow into basically kind people? Why have kids if you aren’t interested in showing them how to not be assholes. 

You know the rest of us have to live with your offspring, right?

We have to share a planet with your tiny snowflake and if your tiny snowflake is a dick, nobody will like your snowflake. Someday, somebody may punch your snowflake in its snowy mouth.

But you know, all hypothetical empty threats aside, sometimes I wonder if our world has just become a giant cluster of humans scrambling to get on top. Like I wonder if parents are purposely letting their kids be assholes so they will be the bully instead of the bullied. Or maybe they’re mean to their kids. Or insult the way yet look. I don’t know. Something is wrong. It’s getting Lord of The Flies up in here.

It often feels like we do our best to raise decent kids and then we send them off into a world devoted to beating that decency out of them.

And that’s why I’m writing this. We have to work together to stop raising tiny rude people.

Or at least, fewer.

For community. For the future. For America! Raise a kid you wouldn’t mind working with. Standing next to in the DMV. Serving dinner to. Engaging with ever in any circumstances.



I just have a few questions for Amanda Chantal Bacon

by renegademama

So, Amanda. I read your article in Elle about what you eat every day and I just wanted to thank you for offering so many creative and reasonable ideas for my working class family of six.

I can’t wait to announce to my children that we will be eating bee pollen for breakfast tomorrow after meditating and doing a 23-minute breath set.

Wanted to ask you though, what exactly is a “breath set?” And why 23-minutes? Are you breathing in a special way for 23 minutes? Why not 24? Or 22? I fear my 14-year-old, being something of a skeptic, may wonder why the fuck we’re doing a breathing thing for precisely 23 minutes. I’m sure you have your reasons though. Your eyes and draping white linen shoulder wraps tell me you are very, very deep. I’m sure you’ve “done your homework” with your “go-to yoga” teacher over there in Venice, appropriating Eastern spirituality like a motherfucker!

I try. But I live in a central valley town with a bunch of working-class people. It’s so hard to find enlightened people here. I have to really seek out people eating maca doing Kundalini yoga in head-wraps (I noticed them on your yoga place’s website. Can I get one on Etsy?).

I wish I were you. I’ll just follow you on Instagram and yearn.

I’m so glad you mentioned that you drink your “morning chi drink” “in the car!” That really leveled the playing field between you and me, made you so accessible and real. I’ll admit, I felt a little distant when you mentioned cordyceps, reishi, maca, and Shilajit resin, because, you see (I’m ashamed to admit), I’ve never seen those things at Costco and thought for a second maybe you and I aren’t the same, but when I found out you too consume beverages in the car, I realized you’re just another busy mom like me, trying to balance it all while achieving enlightenment through white New Age classism.

What a leader you are!

A light in a dark world. In fact, in that photo of you, the light seemed to actually go through you, as if you were an angel. Are you an angel? Or maybe you are in fact, MOON DUST. Like the name of your juice bar. Moon Juice by the woman made of Dust. OMG how CUTE!

I bet you have hundreds of thousands of followers on Instagram. You’re so inspirational. Whenever I’m in doubt, I’m going to gaze at your bright face and know how good life could be for me, if I could just figure out how to spend $700/day on “seaweed salad with micro cilantro and daikon, and a delicate broth of mushrooms and herbs.”

I tend to eat chicken for dinner.

I should probably be put to sleep.

Also, yesterday, I let my 20-month-old eat Skittles in his high chair so I could take a shower in peace. I never do that. Usually I feed him blueberries, his favorite thing. Have you heard of them? Excessively pedestrian food, I know, but still, he likes them.

Anyway I didn’t have any blueberries, so I let him eat Skittles. Lots of red dye. I feel terribly guilty now. You would never do that, would you, Amanda? Do you think there’s still hope for me? Do you think if I really work hard I can eat zucchini ribbons and pine nuts as an actual meal as opposed to a side-dish of questionable validity?

Which reminds me, what’s your sweet little Rohan’s favorite food? I mean, when he’s not requesting vegan restaurants on Abbot Kinney in Venice, what does he like to eat?

Activated cashews? What about regular ones? Do non-activated cashews count? DO NON-ACTIVATED CASHEWS HAVE ANY PLACE ON THE PLANET AT ALL?

You’re such a wealth of knowledge, Amanda!

You also mentioned that “your version of a taco” is “a nori roll with umeboshi paste, avocado, cultured sea vegetables, and pea sprouts.” This confuses me a little, because where I come from, a taco involves a tortilla, and some sort of meat. Have you ever had tacos al pastor? Asada? I guess not. But then again, your version is “probiotic-rich with the cultured veggies, and deeply mineralizing thanks to the sea vegetables.”

Well, shoot. Guess that means no more carnitas for me. But wait.

Have you ever been to a taco truck? You say your seaweed taco is “deeply satiating” but I fear perhaps you haven’t experienced “satiating” on the level I have. Have you ever had some tacos al pastor with corn tortillas and onion and cilantro and lime on top, sold right there out of the truck?

I just don’t see how pea sprouts can ever compete with motherfucking carnitas, Amanda. HAVE YOU EVER HAD A FUCKING TACO TRUCK TACO BECAUSE I FEAR YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH HERE WHEN WE TALK ABOUT TACOS.


I get carried away. I love tacos.

I’m okay now.

Alright, so, now that I know how smart enlightened rich white millennial females in Los Angeles eat, I can move forward with my life in a remarkably more productive and healthy and spiritually sound way.

Big thanks to you and Elle magazine for really having your finger on the pulse of what matters. Really right at the heart of relevance here. No other magazines are posting your daily regime. Why? Because they don’t know what matters.

One more thing though: Did you notice your last name is “Bacon?”

You might want to check that out.


Sorry. Again. I think my mind is a little whacky from the boxed brownies I ate yesterday during the Superbowl. I think I could actually feel myself getting less intelligent as each processed butter-laden sugar ball entered my bloodstream.

Maybe I’ll make some chia almond pudding with my kid instead, to be like you, and feel hope.

Activated cashews, delicate hands, and copper cups for all!