MiTHology (4.0)

How The Hell Do I Feed These Kids

June 20th, 2026

That’s not a rhetorical question. And no, this is not going to be a post about the price of groceries, although that is of course also an issue worth complaining about.

No, in this post I am wondering about how, i.e. in what way, according to which method, I am actually supposed to feed my kids. How, in 2026 America, am I supposed to feed them in such a way that they are healthy and full, eat a good variety of real foods, and form a healthy relationship with food that won’t require years of therapy to repair later on?

If you’re sitting here reading this going “what a dumb question!”, “but it’s obvious!”, “just do xyz!”, then you are not the target audience of this post; this post is not for you; congrats on being a superior parent and human; here, take your gold star and cookie and move along: ⭐️🍪

For those of you still here: ah, I’ve found my people. Now, let’s brainstorm this together. Because there is so much conflicting advice out there. And I am about to lose my ever-loving mind trying to figure out how the hell to feed these kids.

A bit about me and my situation: I have four kids, ages 6, 4.5, 3, and 11 months. The 11-month-old is a baby so he’s easy enough. The other three, though — I’m at my wit’s end, currently.

I feel like things were pretty stable before I got pregnant with my youngest. Meal planning was still a pain in the ass, because my husband and I have different tastes and the kids have different tastes so it’s like I have to make three grocery lists and plan three sets of meals. But I remember back then there was at least some semblance of order, to mealtime; a vague nod in the general direction of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

But then, with the all-day first trimester nausea, I lost control and it was all I could do to survive and keep everyone fed; the nausea lasted up until nearly twenty weeks, and by the time things felt under control in the house again, I was late third trimester, and then had a newborn, and things became more chaotic than ever.

Now my baby is almost one and I still haven’t been able to get the kids’ meal situation under control. It’s just chaos. There is no “mealtime.” There is no breakfast, lunch, or dinner anymore. There is no table, there is no chairs. There is only snacks. From morning till night, everyone is constantly hungry, and everyone wants a snack. All I do all day every day is serve snacks. PBJs, crackers, berries, cheese, yogurt, chocolate milk. Those are the only things my kids like now. I try to keep it to two PBJs per kid per day, but sometimes it gets to three and they still want another. If I offer them anything home-cooked, even something benign and toddler-friendly like pizza or pasta, they take one look and declare that it’s “BWEH!” and refuse to touch it. PBJs. There are bits of snacks all over the house, pulverized Goldfish and half PBJs, because even though they are starving they rarely seem to actually eat. How the hell do I feed these kids.

I’m so torn, constantly, between “let kids be kids! Make happy memories!” and “raise them to be healthy, responsible adults, even if it’s hard.”

The former philosophy is the one I was raised on. I was a picky eater, and my mom didn’t fight me on it — she just accommodated me. I ate a lot of Chef Boyardee, Kid Cuisines, and Lunchables, when I was little, without shame. My family didn’t eat meals together except on holidays, and there was no strict schedule; I was pretty much fed what I wanted, when I wanted, with some limitations (like chocolate only after the meal). However, as you all know, I haven’t had a good relationship with food & eating, as an adult — quite the contrary — so, do I really want to replicate what my parents did? Clearly, something about that didn’t work!

The latter philosophy — the more strict approach — is the one that my peers, my fellow TradCath moms, seem to endorse. The old-fashioned way. “Picky eating is such a uniquely modern American problem! Up until recently, kids have always eaten what their families ate and it hasn’t been an issue. Just serve them real food, and not that highly-processed junk, from the very start! If it’s not an option they won’t ask for it!” — sounds so simple, right? But I think most of us real moms know it’s actually not that simple. Things happen. Convenience foods enter the household one way or another. And soon they’re the only thing your kid wants.

And that’s when you find yourself in my shoes. What do you do now?

I’ve tried taking away all the convenience foods. “We simply do not have any more PBJs or yogurt tubes. You’re going to have to eat the stir fry.” — that never goes well! Even if I make sure to serve it with something “safe,” like plain rice, as the experts advise! The kids don’t eat, the food goes in the garbage (waste of my time and money), and then they are hangry and life is hell for all of us.

“Just wait it out,” my inner critic scolds me. “You have to be patient. If you cave and give them junk, they’ll learn they’ll get junk food if they just refuse dinner and tantrum enough. If you wait it out, they have to eat eventually.” This seems awfully harsh to me. I remember being a kid; I remember how it felt, how repulsive certain foods were. The prospect of putting certain things in my mouth was so abhorrent. It’d be torture. Call me a softie, but I don’t want to torture my kids. Also, my kids are monsters when they’re starving, and I prefer for us to enjoy our life. Is that a moral failing?

Then there’s the middle ground advice. “Just keep exposing them to new foods! Just keep it drama free and don’t make it stressful! That’s how they’ll build positive associations with healthy foods.” — First of all, any advice that starts with “just” is surely BS, because nothing in parenting is “just xyz” — it’s hard. And furthermore: in practice, this advice is basically saying I need to serve two dinners, making things even more complicated than they already are. The “exposure” food, for them to just look at and “be exposed to,” and then the food they’ll actually eat (i.e. PBJ). Great, thanks for that. Real helpful. Waste of my time and money again. I may as well just show them pictures of food in a book if that’s how we’re gonna do it.

There’s been times over the last couple years when I run out of energy to stress about this whole food question, when I just say “fuck it” and stock up the fridge with GoGurt and string cheese and frozen nugs and let them eat what they want at whatever time — as long as they’re ingesting food and in a good mood, that’s a win! Sometimes I wonder if this is really the best strategy! Maybe it’s okay to prioritize our sanity! Maybe I need to get over the mom guilt, take the pressure off, stop comparing myself to other moms, and just let my kids be kids! Isn’t this the best way to avoid giving them an eating disorder? To keep food fun and low-pressure?

I sometimes start to think yes — but then I see these other moms, like the moms in my church mom groups, whose kids (the same ages as mine, or younger) are such good eaters. They never eat junk. These toddlers are chowing down on green salad, homemade kefir, baked fish, homemade sourdough crackers. “How do you do it!!” I ask my fellow moms. Their reply: they don’t offer junk, they are consistent about mealtimes, they don’t allow constant grazing. Basically: the “strict” tactic I mentioned above. And their kids are so much better-behaved than mine! Surely, they must be doing it right.

So I crack down again. “We have no more yogurt tubes.” “We’re not doing Goldfish in bed anymore. You will eat your dinner at the table.” — and once again, life becomes hell in my house! And the vicious cycle of guilt and misery and wasted time and money rolls on.

I wouldn’t say that feeding kids is the hardest part of parenting. The hardest part of parenting, for me, is the anxiety, the staggering responsibility, knowing that you are responsible not just for their safety, health, and happiness here on Earth, but in large part for their eternal salvation or damnation. It’s almost too much to think about. — The second hardest part is the socializing. As someone with AVPD, I hate socializing, but I force myself to do it, to attend play dates and play groups and parties and classes, so that the kids can have social experiences. The third hardest part of parenting, though: the third hardest part is the feeding. Undoubtedly the feeding. Harder even than the lost sleep, the lost free time, the messes, the potty training, and the financial costs — the feeding. Is it just me? How the hell do I feed these kids.

“Just model good eating yourself!” Maybe that is the secret. Eating as a family is hard for me to do. Because of the ED stuff and my weird control issues around food. Also, because of my upbringing, sitting around a table for family meals just feels weird and uncomfortable for me — always has. And my kids hate sitting at the table anyway, and whenever they eat are constantly asking me to bring them stuff — a napkin, some water, some ketchup, a clean spoon because they dropped theirs — so I wouldn’t really get to sit down anyway, even if I wanted to. So usually I don’t even try. I eat later, once the kids are in bed — the same way my parents used to do when I was a kid. If my kids see me eating, it’s normally like a string cheese or a square of candy or a cup of juice, on the go.

“Well no wonder, then,” you’re probably saying. “They’re eating exactly as you do.”

Ugh.

But once again I ask: is it such a moral failing for me to want to make life somewhat easier for all of us? Are my kids really suffering, am I giving them some great disadvantage in life, because I don’t like to sit down and eat lunch at a table myself? Is it that weird and bad for parents and kids to eat separately? Am I really setting them up for an ED by not actively eating meals in front of them three times a day? (I cannot stomach the thought of sitting down and eating three meals a day, ugh!) Am I making excuses? — Maybe my answer is buried somewhere in this paragraph and I’m just avoiding it. — or, more likely, I could sit with my kids at table three times a day and serve us home-cooked food and they’d still refuse to eat anything but PBJs. Probably the ED isn’t caused by family meals or the lack thereof, but by other factors and influences.

Do any of you have any firsthand experience to share? Can anyone commiserate? Does anyone have advice that’s not just a condescending “just do xyz”? How do we feed these kids? Comments are open!
#10: “Fever Dream” by Samantha Schweblin

June 18th, 2026

Have any of you read this one? It’s a short (183 page) little horror novel, translated from Spanish by Megan McDowell. I had never heard of it before today, when I grabbed it at my local library because it was on a little display they’d set up of horse-themed novels. “HORSES,” read the little laminated sign, and immediately my inner horse girl was awoken like a sleeper agent, and I made a beeline to the shelf and was tempted to scoop up all six or eight novels there, but I was holding my baby on one arm and a giant sack of kid’s books on the other, and my three little kids were scrambling around making trouble as usual, so I had to just quickly grab the first one that caught my interest. And here it is:

I was really hopeful for this one because in addition to horses, I also love a good psychological horror story — and this one was shortlisted for the Booker prize, so it was sure to be good!

Thing is though, as fun as it was (because yes indeed, I did manage to read it in one day, in stolen moments, and if I hadn’t had work to do, could have read it in a single sitting; it really does go that fast)… I’m a bit disappointed.

First of all, and this is nothing wrong with the story, but rather my library’s fault: it’s kind of a stretch to call this one “horse-themed.” Yes there are horses in it, but they don’t do much. They’re just kind of mentioned a few times.

Second of all, and more importantly: the ending just kinda fell flat for me. It felt pretty anticlimactic. Probably I’m just too dumb for the book. After finishing it, I was like: “that was it? Did I miss something? Where was the big creepy reveal?” So I looked up some reviews and discussions online, and apparently I didn’t miss anything, it’s just a very straightforward little story.

There’s nothing even slightly supernatural — and I don’t even need supernatural elements tbh, like for me most mainstream supernatural horror is way over the top; but when I’m promised a “ghost story,” I do hope to have at least something unexplainable or spooky or left up to the imagination! This story was entirely natural and explainable (well, to be fair, I guess it’s left up to us to wonder whether what the green house lady did was real or if it was just the lasting effects of the boy’s illness).

The only thing that made this feel like a “ghost story” was the hallucinatory, fever dream style of the narration. Which was very effective. But I dunno, I kept hoping for something that would make me gasp and go “Oh, shit! It all makes sense now!” but that just never came. The story just kind of rolled along until it stopped.

But like I said, I’m probably just too dumb for it.

Or too sad. Another discussion pointed out that the book is actually more sad than scary. And I have to agree. It’s called a “horror,” but it’s really more of a tragedy. And a tragedy was the last thing I needed in my life today. So, yeah, a bit disappointed.

I mean, climate fiction… that’s the big surprise? Reminds me a lot of the “twist” in M. Knight Shyamalan’s The Happening, which was simiarly unsatisfying for me. It’s disappointingly, upsettingly realistic, I guess. I was hoping for something a little more escapist. Shoulda known escapism wouldn’t be shortlisted for a Booker prize. You’ve got to be socially aware to make that list.

Don’t get me wrong though, Fever Dream is an amazing little book and really holds your interest. And it is creepy. There were parts that were so suspenseful I almost couldn’t stand it, like where David is going this is it, this is the important part, and you’re just watching and waiting for something climactic to happen. His rushed, italicized interrogation really did add to the suspense.

And a lot of the discussions and reviews online are talking about how relatable it is for moms: this idea of a “rescue distance” (which, if I’m not mistaken, is the original title in Spanish; I kinda wish they’d kept this title in translation!): the constant awareness that we moms have of how far away your kid is, where they are, what they are doing, how long it’d take you to get to them in an emergency… like an invisible rope from your stomach connecting you to them (an umbilical cord, one might say). The way it pulls taut and shortens or ties in knots when something scary happens or you don’t know where they are. Those moments are indeed extremely relatable and well-written. And in the end make the story that much sadder.

Overall, I do recommend this book if you are someone who’s smart and socially aware — but I do not recommend this book if you’re looking for a satisfying, mysterious ghost story, or if you’re someone who doesn’t like being made to feel sad.
Snow globes: revisiting my ridiculous 20-year-old novel, & wondering what (if anything) we can learn from our former selves

June 16th, 2026

Do you guys ever look back at your old stories you’ve written? How’s that typically go, for you?

At this time twenty years ago — spring/summer 2006 — I was sixteen years old, and spending my every spare moment on this old desktop PC in the corner of my room, writing this massively-long and pointless novel while listening to AFI’s freshly-dropped “Decemberunderground” on my headphones. It was, without a doubt, one of the happiest and funnest times of my whole life.

Recently was the twentieth anniversary of “Decemberunderground”‘s release (6/6/6, remember? Lol) and it occurred to me that it’s been exactly twenty years since that happy novel-writing time. So, for shits and giggles and old times’ sake and all, I decided to look back at that old novel, for the first time in a really long time. Looking at my old writing is always a bit risky, for me, because 99.9% of the time it’s so cringe it makes me physically ill and then I want to go fling myself off a roof. But, I guess I was feeling resilient, because I opened the doc anyway.

I just skimmed it though — I’m not about to read the whole thing. Because that sucker is, I kid you not, 210,682 words long. Good grief!

Oh, to have that much free time again, time to write 200k+ words! — but, if I’m being honest, it wasn’t just a surplus of time, that allowed me to write such a long novel. It was a lack of inhibition, and a pure, childlike joy that I don’t know how to get back.

Let me tell you about this thing. It is the story of a certain guy, with whom you’re probably familiar if you know me at all, when he was seventeen years old, going to crash with his friends for a period of four weeks during the summer. Basically, it just follows all their silly little random antics over this four-week period. There is a plot, but it’s very loose and understated — the book could easily have been a short story or novella, but it was crammed with so much filler, SO much filler, just loads and loads of filler that served no purpose at all other than to tickle me and make me (and my bff at the time) laugh. I literally just followed the characters every waking moment of their lives for four weeks and wrote down all their pointless conversations and everything.

That’s all it was. I wanted to just hangout with them, that summer, so that’s what I did.

Publishable? Hell no — not by any stretch of the imagination! Of value to anyone except me (and maybe my high school bff, who btw I added in both myself and her as characters, too, in true sixteen-year-old author fashion)? Hard no! Is it at least any “good” as a piece of writing, though? Absolutely not! It’s cringe AF! — and yet, there’s something about it that’s imo kind of better, kind of lovelier, than any fiction I’ve written since roughly college, when I started to become more “serious” and self-aware about writing.

Is it just me? I miss how much fun writing used to be. Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s still fun. That’s why I do it. It’s still the only thing that makes me forget to watch the clock. But it’s a different kind of fun now, a very self-aware fun. Always, it’s directed toward some invisible audience, some target reader; always, practicality is a priority: would anyone else like this? Is it publishable? What am I doing, what is the point of this? So what, so what, so what?

It didn’t used to be like that. At some point I lost the ability to write just for myself, the way I did twenty years ago. I guess that was when I stopped being a child. I lost the ability to play.

And the thing is, I don’t even really want to write like that anymore. It’s so selfish. It’s such a waste of time. It’s just titillation — it’s pointless.

But I kind of miss the days before I worried about such things.

It’s not like I wasn’t worried, at sixteen. It’s not like I was some happy-go-lucky carefree kid. I was properly angsty, actually, in the thick of all the ED stuff and afflicted with terrible social anxiety that made high school a nightmare — this though, this little (er, not so little) book, this was my escapism. Pure escapism! These days, there’s no escape quite like what this was for me at the time. I guess I’ve outgrown it.

I’m glad I don’t write like this anymore, but also, I kind of miss it. Still, when I hear “Decemberunderground,” or any of the other songs that were on my playlist then, I go right back to this stupid book, in my head, and the nostalgia is so sweet. I’m grateful to have built this world to go back to whenever I feel like it — but it’s a place frozen in time now. It’s like a snow globe. I can pick it up and gaze at it, but I’ll never live in it again.

Like many of us who write, I have a whole collection of these snow globes, a whole mental curio cabinet of them, which I love to pick up and play with from time to time, and I can’t help cherishing each of them in its own ways, even the hideously cringey ones; this one, though, this stupid thing from spring/summer ’06, will always be one of my favorites.

Without further ado, in case you’re curious, here’s an excerpt from that ridiculous novel — raw, unedited, completely un-retouched, just fresh out of my sixteen-year-old brain (and, of course, completely irrelevant to whatever there was of a “plot”):

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“You’re gonna die, Roger,” Pete said. It was Sunday morning. Roger had just awoken to the sound of Pete using the shower. Now, he was seated on the sofa, yawning. Pete emerged from the bathroom with his hair wet, wearing what had once been a pair of black pinstriped pants but had been cut off at the knees with scissors, the hem then re-fastened with duct tape.

“What?” Roger asked. He turned around slowly.

“You’re gonna get a whooping. Leslie’s mom is going to kick your ass.”

“Why?” Roger asked. He wasn’t all the way awake yet. It was especially difficult to imagine Mrs. Willoughby kicking his ass. Or anyone’s, for that matter.

“Look here,” Pete said. He had stopped in his tracks in front of the sliding glass door.

Roger pulled his lazy self up off the sofa and went to go check out the carpet. Because for some reason, Pete was pointing at the carpet. Roger had no idea what the problem could be. And then, he saw it. There was a trail of big reddish-brown boot prints, leading from the sliding glass door over to the armchair where Roger had collapsed last night. And that was where the culprits were lying- the two old, mud-caked work boots.

“Damn,” Roger said.

“Yeah. True dat.” Pete laughed, and stepped over the mud trail to get to his mass of posessions lying in the corner of the basement. “Way to go. Carpet, one. Roger, zero.”

“I can clean it up,” Roger said. Even though he knew nothing about cleaning things. That always aggravated Susan. He would spill a glass of orange juice on the kitchen floor, and she’d tell him to wipe it up, and after five minutes of wiping the juice had somehow expanded and was covering an even larger section of tile than before.

“Yeah. Of course you can,” Pete said. He was digging through his pile, presumably looking for a shirt, as he still didn’t have one on. He soon located one, a red t-shirt with some skateboarding logo unknown to Roger. The red clashed violently with the fuschia of Pete’s hair. It didn’t bother either of them, though.

Roger thought about the footprints, and what he would need to clean them up. Whenever he tracked mud on the floor in his house, Susan would pull out the Swiffer WetJet. But this was a carpet. He couldn’t Swiffer a carpet… or could he?

“Hey,” Pete said, “did we catch any of those mice?”

“I dunno,” Roger said. “Haven’t checked.”

“I’m gonna go do that.” Pete hopped over the pile of clothes, towards the nearest plastic box. The first one he reported as empty, except for the wad of Twinkie. While Roger investigated the mud prints, Pete walked over to the second mouse trap, and made an announcement: “Dude! We got him!” Pete laughed out loud in victory.

“Awesome,” Roger said. What he was thinking, though, was that he should probably just get some new shoes. As much as he hated that idea. Roger liked those shoes. He had gotten them in eighth or ninth grade, and they had been ridiculously large then. Now they were only kind of large, but they were perfectly adapted to his feet. He liked them. But he knew that there was probably mud caked into their soles, dried mud from God knows how long ago, that turned into instant carpet stainer when moistened. Not good, not at all, especially since Leslie’s basement had carpet.

“He’s still alive!” Pete exclaimed. “He’s moving around! Ha, ha, little bitch! What now, huh?”

“Let’s take him outside,” Roger said.

Pete scoffed. “Why?”

“I dunno. So he can, uh, run into the woods or whatever.”

“You’re such a hippie.”

They heard someone coming downstairs. And then they saw the slate blue Chucks descending the steps. It was Leslie.

“What are you guys doing?” Leslie asked. “I can hear you all over the house.”

“Yo, L-sizzle, we caught one!” Pete cried out, refusing to lower his voice.

Leslie blinked. His eyes narrowed a little.

“Where?” Leslie asked.

Pete pointed towards the corner from which he had retrieved the mouse trap. “Right there. Come see it.”

“Oh my God,” Leslie said, sounding exasperated, but coming over to look anyway. Roger joined them. He was curious to see if it was the same mouse that had so rudely awoken him yesterday.

It might have been the same mouse. It was difficult to tell. It was just a small, grey-brown mouse, cowering in the corner of the tight plastic box with its nose nestled beneath its belly. It was kind of pathetic. Roger was glad that they hadn’t bought the poison pellets.

“How did that get in my house?” Leslie wanted to know.

“I dunno. You tell me,” Pete said. “Let’s name it.”

Roger laughed. One minute Pete wanted to step on the mouse’s head, the next, he wanted to name it.

“Let’s not. Let’s just take it outside,” Leslie said. Leslie was still wearing his green-and-navy plaid pajama pants, with a black polo shirt. He glared at the mouse, like it had personally offended him by being in his basement.

“Yeah, that’s what Roger said,” Pete said dismissively. “What should we name it?”

“Frank,” Roger said. The mouse looked like a Frank to him. It was round and helpless.

“That’s a gay name,” Pete said.

“Don’t name it,” Leslie told them both.

“What do you want to name it, Leslie?” Pete asked. He held up the plastic mouse trap, and shoved it in front of Leslie’s nose. Leslie jumped backwards.

“I don’t,” he repeated. “Let’s just get rid of it.”

“Sam,” Roger said. He supposed Sam would suffice if the mouse couldn’t be named Frank.

“That’s double gay. Let’s name it… umm…”

“Mouse,” Leslie said.

“Burt,” Roger said.

“I say we name it Leslie,” said Pete. Suddenly he burst out laughing. “No, no, get this. Let’s name it Leslie Two. No! Leslie Two: The Return of Leslie,” he exclaimed, and sang three dramatically descending notes in a minor key.

“You suck,” Leslie said. But he was trying not to laugh. That was the closest Roger had seen him come to laughing in a long time.

“Why not? It looks just like you,” Pete said. “Doesn’t it, Roger?”

“Oh, yeah. Practically twins,” Roger agreed.

“That name’s too long anyway,” Leslie part one pointed out.

Pete decided that the mouse was to be referred to as ‘L-Two’ for short.

Since Leslie was sure that his family did not want a pet mouse, they held a releasing ceremony in the backyard. Pete called Bonnie’s cell phone and left a message about the mouse, so that Bonnie could be an honorary guest. It was a bleak, grey morning, still wet from the rain. Roger was barefoot. He didn’t want to get any more mud on his filthy old shoes. He could feel the bottoms of his jeans getting soaked from the grass as he followed Leslie and Pete out to the edge of the woods.

“…We’re in the backyard. We’re about to let him go,” Pete said into the phone. He was narrating the entire scene to Bonnie. “Roger’s gonna open the box. Right, Roger?”

“Right,” Roger said. “Hi Bonnie.”

Leslie crossed his arms and watched solemnly. Roger carefully pulled off the removable end of the trap, trying not to jostle L-2. The plastic box made a sharp popping noise when it opened.

“Did you hear that?” Pete asked Bonnie’s answering machine. “That’s the box opening. Here he goes.”

Roger knelt down so he was closer to the ground. The wetness on the grass was now soaking through to his knees. He tipped the plastic box over just a little bit, so that L-2 could slide out into the grass. There was a soft plop, and after a second, the little mouse had disappeared into the greenery.

“There he went. He’s gone,” Pete said. “Bye, L-2. Have a nice life. See ya, Bonnie.”

Pete hung up the cell phone, and they went back inside.

Leslie noticed the mud prints. Roger was surprised that Leslie wasn’t angry. Not only that, but Leslie even helped him clean it up, using some blue liquid in a squirt bottle, and a coarse scrubbing brush from the bathroom cabinet.

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#9: “Till We Have Faces” by C.S. Lewis

June 15th, 2026

What a surprise to find myself here. I was not planning on reading this book.

For years now, I’ve kinda vaguely intended to read more C.S. Lewis — not having read anything by him since The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe was forced upon me back in fifth grade, and bored me to tears — because, you know, being Catholic, you’re pretty much required to love C.S. Lewis (even though he was Anglican, not quite Catholic; he totally should have been Catholic). But I had no concrete plans to do so, because even though I love how quotable and brilliant Lewis is, I wasn’t sure if I’d like his fiction; that fifth grade experience had kinda left a bad taste in my mouth. And even if I had chosen to read him, this was not the book of his that I would have chosen. With very few exceptions, I’ve never cared for high fantasy.

But then, one night a couple weeks ago, my sister, who’s super smart and reads a ton of books (and also doesn’t typically read high fantasy), texted me at like 1AM to tell me that she’d just finished reading this book for the first time and was so amazed, she absolutely could not wait to talk to me about it! When I told her I had not read it before, she went and bought me a copy and had it overnight-delivered to my house so that I could read it. And here it is:

And here we are. I’m afraid I can’t say much of anything intelligent about this book, as I am not that intelligent. So if you’re looking for an insightful, enlightening essay about it, move along — there are plenty of those on the internet that you can go find. As ever on this blog, the only thing I can offer are my silly little impressions, opinions, and thoughts. And here they are:

As a non-fantasy reader: I loved this book! 5 stars. It only took about three or four pages for me to get past the “hmm, I dunno, this is pretty fantastical 🤨” and arrive at fully committed. And by about a third of the way through, it was un-put-downable. Pleasant surprise considering my former prejudice against C.S. Lewis’s novels. I actually loved being in the fantasy world he’s built. Glome is what the Greeks call a “barbarian” society, but by the end of the book we see it becoming more “civilized” and Greek-influenced, thanks to Queen Orual, who was of course educated by the Fox, a Greek.

Interestingly, it seems like the rationalization and “civilization” of this society — like, the way the new priest tidies up the House of Ungit and brings in a new, representational statue of a goddess, instead of the old giant rock — it’s heavily implied that these changes bring the society further away from the truth about the “Divine Nature.” Remove it further from the Truth.

One of the most interesting and impactful things, for me, was the constant association of the holy with the horrible. What’s Divine is mysterious, dark, bloody, stinking, grisly, terrifying, brutal — at once earthy and transcendental. Very real and present everywhere, instilling fear and awe. This ancient attitude toward religion is sorely lacking from modern-day American religion, which loves to portray Jesus and Mary as warm-and-fuzzy and friendly and “relatable.” Reading this book kind of reminds you what a healthy fear of God and awe of His ways should feel like. Even though the religion in the story is pagan, the truths in it are just as true in a Christian worldview and practice.

I’m pretty slow, but even I was able to pick up on the themes of self-deception, examination of conscience, penance, honesty with oneself — the symbolism of the veiling of her face, which reminded me also of U.H.I.D. in Infinite Jest (amiright?!) (someone smarter than me should really write a paper comparing/contrasting Orual & Joelle). So it’s rich in symbolism and metaphor and all without being heavy-handed. I appreciate that.

You all know I like delicious prose, and this is about as tasty as it gets. I love it so much I could almost literally take a bite out of it and ingest it (which is apt, considering how one of its major themes is that of the unsettling, visceral commonalities between loving and devouring — the Holy Eucharist, anyone?!). The phrasing is ancient-feeling and poetic, and you’ll discover lots of fun new vocab words.

It’s fun and accessible, but it’s definitely not what I’d call “light” or “pleasant” — this is certainly not in the “beach read” category. It’s sad, heartbreaking even, it’s upsetting, reflective, and very heavy — it will really make you meditate on your own moral blind spots, the sickness of your own soul, whether you can possibly be redeemed, and your own powerlessness to save yourself. Ya know, all that fun stuff! But it does all of this while being very sensorily rich and delicious and romantic and vivid.

There’s really not much I can add to the conversation about such a famous masterpiece, so before I go I’ll just show you one of my favorite passages. Everyone always talks about Orual’s last words at the end of Part Two, and rightfully so, but here’s a part that I think deserves to be quoted more. This is when Psyche and Orual are talking on the night before Psyche is to be Offered, and Psyche’s telling Orual that she’s actually kind of okay with it, because in a way she’s always kinda longed for death:

Our longing for eternity, they say, is itself proof of an eternal God, and this passage puts that in words so clearly! I dunno about you guys but reading this my brain was like YES because I never quite had the words for it but this feeling is so relatable: always, every moment of great happiness, every experience of beauty, is always colored with a certain sadness, because it’s ephemeral, it’s passing away even now, and it’s like you can’t really sink into it enough. It’s never real enough. “Somewhere else there must be more of it” — exactly! This is our longing for Heaven.

This passage really makes you meditate on how great Heaven must be — if you think back, for a moment, over every joy you’ve ever wished you could freeze and live in forever, or every beautiful thing you’ve ever seen and somehow longed to immerse yourself in more totally — every good thing that’s passing away, all of that longing will be satisfied in Heaven, forever! And more! Sometimes we get so caught up in worrying about avoiding damnation that we forget to meditate on the joy of Heaven (it’s me, I’m “we”). And it’s better, after all, to strive for the joy of union with God than to just try to dodge punishment. We shouldn’t just be content to spend a few millennia in purgatory because, oh well, at least we’ll eventually get to the lower tier of Heaven — we should want to be as close to God as we possibly can! We should want to be great saints.

So yeah, as grim and heavy as this book is, it’s also uplifting, and I daresay it will help you grow in sanctity if that’s something you’re working on. Even if you don’t care for fantasy, or religion for that matter, give it a try if you haven’t already. It’s the very definition of good fun.
The only thing I know about “success in life”

June 14th, 2026

Daily writing prompt
What’s your top tip to be successful in life?
View all responses

“Successful in life” — wow, I’m flattered — who do you think I am, WordPress Daily Prompts? Do I look like Elon Musk, or Saint Carlo Acutis, or Kardea Brown (my hero!), or, I dunno, Barack Obama, or any other modern-day example of what anyone’s definition of “success in life” might possibly look like? Me? I’m literally just some wannabe writer blogging on WordPress on my phone while nursing my baby in a recliner.

Although I’m a pretty happy person — happier, I daresay, than many of my peers — I can’t claim to know much about any kind of “success in life,” as I’m not super great at any particular thing, and am very far from holy, wealthy, good, or “high-achieving” by any definition of that term.

I guess if there’s one area of life in which I can maybe say a thing or two about “success,” it is: recovery, as in: recovery from alcoholism and EDs.

First of all, before I share with you what I believe to be “the secret to success” in recovery, I’ll tell you my credentials: the reasons why you should, well, I won’t say “believe” or “trust” my advice, because my advice might not even work for you; different things work for different people, in recovery, contrary to what some folks in Recoveryland like to loudly assert; just in order that you might see that I have a legitimate reason to say anything on the topic at all. Or at least to believe that I may.

My credentials: completely sober from alcohol since March 2019 without the aid of any particular program or rehab or methodology; was in A.A. for four years before that (since January of 2015), but with only spotty bouts of sobriety there. Prior to that, I drank addictively, or at least problematically, since 2007/08. So, that’s approximately twelve years of active addiction, and seven years sober.

And also: virtually fully “recovered” from anorexia & bulimia since the same time, March 2019 (not counting a period of relapse in late 2021), also without the aid of therapy or inpatient treatment or any particular technique.

Prior to that, I lived with some iteration of an eating disorder since 2004, when I was fourteen and first diagnosed with anorexia. In roughly 2011, when I started drinking more heavily, the anorexia evolved into bulimia (alcohol will do that to ya!). I’ll spare you all the gory details. Long story short, the entirety of my teens and twenties were one long and depressing battle, and during this time I pretty much never got periods, because of being constantly in starvation mode, so I was pretty sure I’d never have kids naturally.

But since approximately 2019 (unlike sobriety, it’s harder to pinpoint the exact date of recovery from EDs, because it’s less black-and-white), I’ve been at a pretty stable and normal size. I’ve managed to attain, and even accept, my “normal” weight — i.e., the weight that I am at when I’m living a happy life and not thinking about food constantly. Feeling safe around food, and tbh even bored by it. And! Best of all, I’ve had four kids, naturally, without the aid of any kind of reproductive technology.

So, that’s fifteen-seventeen years of living with an active ED, approximately five-seven years “recovered.”

So that’s the abridged version of my little story. It’s pretty undramatic, I guess — no hospitalizations or brushes with death or whatever — certainly they won’t be making any movies about me, lol. But still, I think it’s evident that I’ve achieved what could be called “success,” in this area.

How? What is the secret?

“The secret to success,” in my opinion at least, is this: and I wish someone had told it to me this plainly at the outset of my recovery: the secret is getting used to being uncomfortable.

You’re not going to feel magically different. You’re never going to be able to eat unself-consciously, without worry, like you did when you were a kid. Let go of that dream. You’re never going to feel great about yourself; socializing will always be hard; you will never like the way you look. Yes, you could say some things about your life are “ruined” or “broken” — you just have a new normal now. You will get used to it — and life will be good anyway!

I wish it had been put to me so plainly — I wasted so much time and energy chasing after this mirage of “learning to love myself,” “finding myself,” “overcoming,” “gaining freedom,” being “happy,” etc. etc. etc., all of it useless lies.

But I guess those ideas are what sell. You’re not going to inspire someone to quit drinking or quit starving themselves if you tell them “it’s true, you’ll never feel good in your own skin, you’re always going to be uncomfortable! You’ll never have a “normal” relationship with food, and you’ll never like the way you look! You just get used to it!” If that’s how you try to sell recovery, sick people will just shake their head and say “I’ll pass” and keep right on choosing sickness — I know I would have!

Maybe that’s why it was never told to me plainly. I guess you have to rosy it up a bit, to inspire people to want to get better. “Learn the art of intuitive eating!” “Practice affirmations of self-love!” “You’ll experience a total personality change as a result of working the Twelve Steps!” Lies! All lies! None of that ever happened, for me, no matter how desperately I wanted them or how hard I worked to engineer them. — But guess what! Life is good anyway!

“You just get used to being uncomfortable,” a fellow alcoholic said to me in A.A. once, and that might have been the single most useful thing anyone ever said to me in my four years in the program, more useful than anything in the actual literature. It’s so true. It’s so unglamorous. There’s no Lisa Frank-looking utopia at the end of the dark tunnel. The dark tunnel is what it is. This is it, you’re already there. Your eyes just adapt to the darkness. And pretty soon you find it’s alright. You have a good life there. You actually have evolved — just not in the fairytale way that you’d hoped to.

Don’t give up! The discomfort gets less agonizing as you adapt. It becomes like the snores of an annoying roommate rather than the shrieks of some homicidal stranger who’s broken into your house, threatening you. Things even out. Things become undramatic. Things that used to bowl you over just make you chuckle and shrug your shoulders now.

My legs are massive — yeah, I hate them, I never want to wear shorts. So what. I’m 36. I literally have better things to worry about now. My life is good and I am happy even though I hate my legs and refuse to go out in shorts.

I don’t like to eat in social situations. So what. They’ll tell you you aren’t really enjoying life unless you can cut loose and eat a spontaneous indulgent lunch with your friends at a restaurant, and order dessert — that is blatantly false. I don’t do that kind of thing, but I love my life and am happy. Accepting my limitations and adapting to them — that was the secret to success.

I have intense social anxiety and can’t make friends — still true. So I just… don’t go out or make friends. So what. Life is still good. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. I find other ways to scratch the social itch (hello, reader!). Am I lonely sometimes? In a way, sure, but it’s not world-ending. Life comes with little pains and sadnesses. It doesn’t mean it’s not a good life.

You get used to being uncomfortable. That’s the big secret. In a way, it’s actually a relief to know that. You don’t have to stress about attaining some mythical RECOVERED status. You don’t have to worry that you’re not recovered enough because you’re not happy enough, those layers of worry folding over and over on each other like puff pastry dough. When you accept that this is simply it, this is all there is, this darkness in the tunnel, then you can just… be, and accept that you are already doing it, you’re already there. You can start to get your footing there.

Now keep in mind I’m just one person and what works for me might not work for you. Or maybe you have actually attained some mythical Lisa Frank place of freedom and joy, in which case, wow! Congrats! I’m happy for you. But recovery is also available to those of us who for whatever reason can’t get there. Life is still good. You just have to really accept that it’s not going to be perfect. It’s actually so much better when you take it for what it is. Things are good now. I wish someone would have told me plainly.

Or maybe they tried. Maybe this is one that you really just have to figure out for yourself and put into your own words when you do.
TOP 10: Best & Worst Children’s Books

June 13th, 2026

That’s right, this shall be two TOP 10 lists in a single post! Hot diggity dog! Buckle up, readers.

I have four kids six and under, and we’re a pretty bookish family, so it follows that I read a lot of children’s books these days. Tbh I read more children’s books than adult books, anymore, and thus I’ve formed a lot of opinions about children’s books, over the past six years.

Some, I love dearly — it’s been a delight to rediscover some favorites from my own childhood with my kids, and to discover some new gems as well! It goes without saying that works such as Frog and Toad, the Magic School Bus series, anything by Beatrix Potter, and Mary Cicely Barker’s Flower Fairies are timeless classics. If I were to list every kid book that I love, this post would be way too long.

Others, though… others give me the ick. Some, for identifiable reasons, but others, just because something about the illustrations or the writing rubs me the wrong way. Nothing against the creators of these books; my hat is off to just about any writer/illustrator of children’s books! (I say “just about” because some of these are, imo, less respectable works than others.) Some of these just make me recoil and/or elicit a gross feeling inside, an aversion like that between twin magnetic poles, and I have to really grit my teeth and force my way through it when my kids ask me to read them these particular books.

I’m a “bad news first” type of person, so let’s begin with the icky. If you’re reading this and you happen to be the author or illustrator of one of these books: I’m sorry, I have nothing against you personally, and indeed have great respect for you for being a traditionally-published writer/artist at all — we all know how hard that is to achieve, especially in this day and age! My criticism is simply a matter of personal taste — and know that you wouldn’t have made it to this list at all if my kids didn’t adore your work and beg me to read it to them. Which was, after all, your goal, wasn’t it?

TOP 10: Children’s Books that Give Mith the Ick

14. Anything by Richard Scarry. I know, I know — this is a controversial opinion. His artwork is adorable and charming and all, I understand that. And so wholesome. There’s not a thing wrong with it. On paper, it ticks all my boxes — it seems like the kind of thing I would approve of. But something about his drawings gives me a chilly, queasy, unsettled feeling. Is it just me?

13. The Madeline books. Yup, call me crazy but I don’t like these either! The first one is a good little story with good rhyming — indeed, good enough to outweigh the icky artwork — but the sequels are dumb and contrived, the rhymes weak and cringey. And yeah, the art is majorly gross for me. I hate it the same way I hate 1930s-40s movies and music; Madeline looks the way croony 1940s music sounds on crackly vinyl. I realize it’s a masterpiece and all but it just doesn’t vibe with me!

12. Most things by Dr. Seuss. Another hot take! I say “most things” because there are a few stories of his that I love so much that it overrides my aversion to his art: namely, Daisy-Head Mayzie, The Sneetches, and of course The Lorax — but, for the most part, his illustration style just feels cold and creepy to me. Sterile, soulless, spooky. I hate his made-up animals, they make me nauseated. Dr. Seuss apparently moonlighted (moonlit?) as a painter of creepy, surreal works for adults, and if you look up his adult work, you can really see that this is where he pulls out all the stops and just lets his creepiness flow unrestrained. Horrifying stuff. There are few places I’d want to visit less than Dr. Seuss’s brain.

11. Ten Tiny Tickles by Karen Katz. Nothing against Ms. Katz, her work is cute and there’s nothing wrong with it, and I like her other books; I simply hate this little board book. Obnoxious AF. I can honestly not even stand to read it out loud. My kids loved it so much that I had to bury our copy deep in the basement.

10. The Froggy series by Jonathan London, illustrated by Frank Remkiewicz. Again, no offense to the author or illustrator! Objectively great children’s books, and highly successful. Just annoying to me. It’s all the “zip,” “zup,” “zing” sound effects and all the “Froooogggyyyyy!!” “Wha-aaa-aat?” dialogue — but it’s also the mouths. Ugh, the mouths. The characters’ mouths remind me of puppets, which you already know from this post give me the major ick.

9. The Olivia books by Ian Falconer. These books are actually kinda cute; I’m not sure why they irritate me so much, but they do.

8. The Llama Llama books by Anna Dewdney. These rhymes are actually really solid. So what is it about Llama Llama that pisses me off? I think a large factor is the name. Why is he, as a llama, named “Llama Llama.” I get so sick of hearing that repeated a million times per book.

7. Anything by Sandra Boynton. No offense, Ms. Boynton! You’re so hugely popular that I’m sure one stupid little WordPress blogger’s silly little unsolicited opinion is just laughably meaningless to you, anyway. But man, those goofy dopey animals and their little songs are so irritating to me.

6. Anything by Mo Willems. I’m actually conflicted on this one, because my firstborn when she was a year old was gifted a copy of Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus, and she was obsessed with it — we read it so many times that she memorized it, it was one of the first books she ever memorized, and I have videos of her sitting in the glider chair in her nursery “reading” it to herself — the sweetest thing! However, I also find Mo Willems’s ultra-modern style of drawing and storytelling to be highly obnoxious, and even kind of depressing. There’s no beauty in these books, nothing uplifting or enchanting or good. It’s just brainrot for kids.

5. Anything by Aaron Blabey. Again, I’m emotionally conflicted here because my secondborn absolutely loves Thelma the Unicorn. Every time we go to the library, she wants to check out Thelma, and never gets bored of it; I should really just cave and buy a copy, but I hate to, because I friggen hate these books. They’re so vapid! Even the illustrations are like deliberately stupid. The original Thelma isn’t bad, although the rhymes are pretty lazy imo, but the second one is really weak and lame. But, hey, my four-year-old is the target audience, not me, and for her it’s a huge hit, so what does my opinion matter anyway.

4. The Little Critter books by Mercer Mayer. I hate that critter. I hate his face. All the other books on this list, I’ve begrudgingly allowed into my home at some point… but never these. Never these. The sight of that critter’s horrible face has always turned my stomach.

3. The Amelia Bedelia books by Peggy/Herman Parish. I liked these when I was a little kid, but now, as a mom, they drive me insane! I hate reading them out loud — why must they repeat her stupid name over and over like it’s some kind of joke?! I once counted how many times I had to say her name in a single book and it was like 80something. And as an adult, watching her destroy people’s homes and belongings, while acting all cutesy and helpless about it, is so triggering. And why is she always smiling as she does it?! If this woman ever came anywhere near my house I’d chase her off with a hose.

2. The KittyCorn books by Shannon Hale, illustrated by LeUyen Pham. With all due respect to the author and illustrator, who after all have published multiple books while I have published zero: these books feel like an insult to my daughter’s intelligence. And damaging to it. KittyCorn is to little girls what pornography is to adults. The stories are highly simplistic, the artwork is silly and goofy, not beautiful — but it’s about a “KittyCorn,” so little girls are hypnotized, spellbound, and just absorb it. This is the high fructose corn syrup of kid lit. (Same way I feel about the junky chapter book series Mermicorn Island by Jason June. An insult! (My oldest is starting to read chapter books, so there are a few of those that I considered for this post, both bad and good; however, I decided to keep it to picture books. Maybe another day I’ll discuss chapter books & MG fiction.))

and to top it off:

1. The Pete the Cat series by Eric Litwin, James Dean, and Kimberly Dean. These books piss me off. I know the art is supposed to be “highly stylized” and “bold” and “modern” or whatever, but to me it is just upsettingly ugly; the plots and dialogue are senselessly stupid, like a painfully-mentally-handicapped person wrote them, and I cannot STAND the way the cat calls everything “groovy,” it smacks of the 1960s-70s which is a time period I generally loathe, an era defined by ugliness and degeneracy. I used to let my kids check out the Pete books anyway, because they liked them and all, but the last straw for me was in the Easter book when Pete the Cat tells the reader: “helping others is what Easter is all about!” — excuse me, sir? What did you just say?! Ugh! Worldly propaganda at its finest!

Now, moving on to the good! I really had to aggressively winnow this list to keep it relatively concise:

TOP 10: Mith-Approved Children’s Books

14. Little Blue Truck by Alice Schertle, illustrated by Jill McElmurry. I haven’t read all the sequels, but the original is a class act: smart rhymes, tight storytelling, genuinely funny, inviting pictures, and a good moral message. Plus, my three-year-old always shrieks with laughter at the line “Goat jumped over the fence, of course” — every time, without fail, which makes it even more delightful to read aloud to the kids. This series absolutely deserves its success.

13. Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock by Eric Kimmel, illustrated by Janet Stevens. If you haven’t read this one, you should, even if you don’t have a kid to read it to. It’s adapted from an African folktale, and it’s clever and funny as heck. Plus the artwork is so lush and expressive, you can really get absorbed in each page; and the story is so well-told. It’s everything that a children’s book should be.

12. The Max and Ruby books by Rosemary Wells. Another series that 100% deserves its raging success! Everything about these books is sweet and sincere and lovely. Some of my personal favs: Max’s Bath (which made me laugh as a kid and still makes me laugh today) and Max’s Birthday, both of which are board books, and, in longer picture books: Bunny Cakes and Bunny Money. The TV adaptation I don’t really care for, but screen adaptations are never as good, are they.

11. Eloise by Kay Thompson, illustrated by Hilary Knight. How badly I wanted to be Eloise, when I was a kid! And tbh still kinda want to! What a dream life. This book is a brilliant work of art. Eloise’s world is so vivid, so real you can actually smell and hear it.

10. Outside Over There by Maurice Sendak. Everyone raves about Where the Wild Things Are, but I actually love this one way more. Maurice Sendak’s stuff is creepy in a good way, and this book exemplifies that. It’s eerie and chilling, but at the same time it’s wholesome, innocent fun for little kids — just as a fairytale should be. The illustrations are phenomenal, each page a work of art, and, as always, Sendak’s narration is beautiful poetry, just as engaging for adults as it is for kids.

9. Certain titles from Robert Munsch. I say “certain titles” because Munsch is very prolific and, tbh, I haven’t read anywhere near all of his books! But, The Paper Bag Princess and Mortimer are both 10/10 classics. And, of course, Love You Forever — although I actually hate reading that one, because it makes me too emotional. I think it might be the single most tear-jerky book ever written, at least if you’re a parent.

8. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs by Judi Barrett, illustrated by Ron Barrett. No commentary needed! Iconic! We all know this one’s genius. It’s a perfect book. As you can imagine, I was furious when I found out they were making a movie adaptation… but to my pleasant surprise, I found that the movie (the first one, not the second) was actually really good too. It’s a completely different story from the book, just loosely inspired by the book really, which is partly why it was such a good adaptation. Book is still better, obviously.

7. The Golden Egg by A.J. Wood, illustrated by Maggie Kneen. If I could live inside one children’s book, it’d be this one. The pictures are just so lovely. Rhymes are just okay, imo, but the artwork more than makes up for it. I read this one to my kids over and over.

6,. Anything by Tomie dePaola. Catholic moms love Tomie dePaola, and I’m no exception! I especially love his book about Mary, the Mother of Jesus, but they’re all gems. Except The Clown of God. That one is way too sad, incredibly sad, and as I said above, I don’t like being made to feel sad.

5. Gregory, the Terrible Eater by Mitchell Sharmat, illustrated by Jose Aruego and Ariane Dewey. As a child, I loved this story because it’s funny and unexpected. As a parent, I love it for several reasons; one being how hilariously relatable it is, if your kids, like mine, are picky eaters; but also because it’s actually really profound. The lesson of this book can apply to so many things in life, and I find myself thinking about it often, in all kinds of contexts. (Now, if you’re normal, you might not find this book so profound… but if, like me, you struggle to comprehend this concept of “moderation,” I highly recommend this as like a textbook.)

4. The Sheep and the Rowan Tree by Julia Butcher. A neat little “bloom where you are planted” story with stunning artwork — honestly, every page could be framed and hung on the wall. I love how it’s just slightly weird and bizarre, too — not your typical “bloom where you are planted” story. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.

3. The Giant Jam Sandwich by Janet Burroway and John Vernon Lord. Janet Burroway is actually a serious poet, not just a children’s book author, and it shows. This is a delectable, masterful little poem that also happens to be a hilarious and weird little children’s book. Not a single word of filler. Contemporary illustrators take note: this is how to offer beauty and levity at the same time! High quality and humor! You don’t have to choose. Readers, get you a book that can do both. I can read this one over and over, not even for the kids, just for myself!

2. Anything by Jan Brett. Jan Brett is the GOAT of children’s book authors. I’m so grateful that she decided to use her artistic gifts to create children’s books, because her books are such a blessing to any household with children. I grew up with her Twelve Days of Christmas, and it’s my favorite Christmas book for kids to this day (and has defined how I hear that song); we also love Hedgie’s Surprise, Fritz and the Beautiful Horses, and The Gingerbread Baby. Seriously, even if you don’t have kids, you should go look at her books just for the artwork. Look at the landscapes in Gingerbread Baby. A veritable feast for the eyes. She’s really out here doing the most. The opposite of Dr. Seuss: I feel like Jan Brett’s brain must be a lovely place to hang out.

and finally, Mith’s favorite children’s book of all time:

1. The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by DuBose Heyward, illustrated by Marjorie Flack. It’s the perfect children’s book. No notes. When I was a kid, I checked this one out from the library as a “book on tape,” which if you’re a crusty old millennial like me, you may remember was the predecessor to today’s audiobooks: the paperback and the cassette tape were loaned out together in a plastic bag that was sealed with a plastic clip that was also a hanger. Anyway, this book made such an impression on me back then, just the classicism and charm and beauty of it, and I still love it just as much. It’s timeless, it’s beautiful, it’s edifying, it’s intelligent, the prose is lovely — just a joy in every way.

What about you guys? Can you think of any great or icky children’s books that I missed? Let me know ⬇️⬇️
Is it ok to hate cooking? (rare uncensored crashout!)

June 11th, 2026
Disclaimer: I’m actually much less mean than this post makes me sound, I promise. I don’t actually hate anyone! Sometimes we all crash out a bit, don’t we, and this was cathartic (and imo funny) to write, so I’m putting it on my blog, because it’s my silly little personal blog, and what’s a personal blog for if not a bit of silliness and catharsis, amiright. TW for bad language and strong opinions.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Tangential Ragey Preface (TW: Vaccines)

Shit be pissing me off these past few days, y’all! Not sure what it is, probably some weird postpartum hormonal nonsense, but I have exactly ZERO patience, especially for things that strike me as stupid, lately.

Just this morning I finally officially uninstalled Instagram (if you know me, you know I have an on-and-off toxic relationship with Instagram). The algo was already annoying me, but the final straw was this one stupid doughy-faced dipshit all up on my Suggested Reels talking about how Catholics shouldn’t vaccinate — and I don’t typically make fun of people’s appearances, because that’s just against my personal code of ethics, but damn!, today, that just crossed a line for me. Like don’t be coming up onto my internet with your misinformation and your doughy-ass face talking about “vACciNes aRe deMoNic” when there’s literally an active outbreak of a previously-eradicated virus raging through my neck of the woods right now precisely because of y’all’s self-centered antivax BS. With your bitch ass. Bye bye, Instagram. (And if you’re thinking of leaving me an antivax “dO yOuR rEseaRch” comment, don’t bother, I’ll delete it without reading. With your bitchass.)

ahem! Anyway, that’s not even the reel I came here to complain about! All of that was just a preface to demonstrate that stupid things, things that wouldn’t normally get under my skin, are getting under my skin lately. The thing I actually came here to talk about is: cooking.

Getting to the Point: The Reel in Question, and the Real Question

Again, it starts with a reel. And this one was randomly recommended to me on YouTube, God knows why. Here it is, if you’re curious, but be warned, it’s stupid as shit. The gist of it is: it’s a series of clips of street interviews, contrasting contemporary Russian women with contemporary American women. When asked whether they cook at home, the Russian women (who btw all happen to be very stylishly-dressed and made-up, also very fit and sexy) all responded, with their delicious accents: “yes, of course, I always cook for my man,” “lots of meat for my man,” “yes, obviously, I love to cook,” “yes, I cook breakfast lunch & dinner daily.” The American women, on the other hand (who btw were varying degrees of basic, out of shape, and casually dressed) all said: “ehh, a couple times a week,” “maybe once a week.” Moral of the story: Russian women are better than American women, because they cook. And women who cook are better.

Stupid! — but, you know what… is it true, I wonder? Am I mad because it’s true?

You might not be concerned about whether this claim is true; you probably have your existing opinion reconfirmed, and move on, thinking it’s obvious and “why would anyone wonder, let alone worry, about something so obvious?” Most people don’t worry about such things. But hey, this is my job, this is what I do, I worry about such things, so if you don’t give a shit and are just rolling your eyes thinking I’m being ridiculous, why are you even on my blog? Get up outta here. (With your bitch ass.)

I won’t bother discussing the issues of femininity, style, and beauty, as those are things I’ve discussed already (here, here, and here, if you’re curious); but today, will focus specifically on this question of cooking. Must a “good woman” necessarily be a good cook? Is it ok for a woman to not cook?

Backstory: Mith’s Personal Relationship with Cooking

Fuck cooking. I hate it. It’s taken me thirty-six years to realize and accept that I hate cooking. For much of my life, I really believed that cooking was one of my hobbies, that I genuinely liked it. But no. What I liked was “edging” eating. I liked being close to food, messing with food, touching and smelling it, as a substitute for actually eating it. A sick avoidant fascination with food. I developed an ED in adolescence, so my relationship with food is just permanently fucked up. Also booze. One of the funnest things ever in my life was drunk cooking. One of my absolute favorite things in the world: chopping vegetables and listening to music while drinking on an empty stomach — peak human experience. 🤌I used to slice all my fingers up so bad.

But then I got sober and got the eating shit under control, and surprise! IRL food is so uninteresting now. (I specify “IRL food” because I still love watching Food Network, writing about food, looking at paintings of food, reading cookbooks…not to be annoyingly self-referential today, but I discuss all of that here.) It’s no longer some exotic treasure to lust after. It’s just food. Ugh. No offense, but why does anyone love cooking? Don’t they have anything more interesting to spend their mental energy on?

A friend once asked if, hypothetically, a pill existed that one could take to meet all their nutritional needs so they wouldn’t need to eat, would I take that pill? And hell yeah I would. Food, digestion. Ugh. Do you remember that scene near the end of Infinite Jest where Hal is imagining, with a dread that borders on horror, all the food that he will have to eat to sustain himself during his career as a student at ETA? All the space that all that food would take up? All that eating you’ll have to do. Ugh. Why all this fuss over filling your stomach. Cooking. And the more elaborate the cooking, the bigger the mess you have to clean up, the more dishes to wash — yet another waste of my fucking life when I could be doing something mentally stimulating.

Sometimes I feel like: why, in 2026, are we still cooking.

No offense but sometimes, I feel like people who really love cooking and cleaning must not have much going on upstairs. Don’t come for me in the comments, I don’t actually endorse that thought. It just crosses my mind, fairly often, without my consent. I’m fully aware that cooking is an art and plenty of people way smarter than I are deeply passionate about it, and that’s cool. (Like I said, I’m obsessed with baking shows!) I don’t get it but whatever.

Image, as always, from pinterest

I hate cooking. I hate the stress and the mess of it. I don’t like to eat, so I don’t taste the shit as I’m making it, so I never even know if it tastes good or not. Left to my own devices, I’d probably never cook at all. I could happily live on coffee and smoothies. Fuck cooking.

Admittedly, this feeling may just be the result of my current situation in life. Cooking used to be “fun”… but now, it’s dull and practical. Now I have four young kids and a husband, all of whom have very different taste preferences, and we have a tight grocery budget and a kitchen that desperately needs renovation. And my kids pretty much won’t eat home-cooked food as a rule — anything I make, automatically disgusting. Strictly ready-made snacks from a package, for them. It all makes meal planning and cooking a real drag. — But, if the kids actually ate my cooking, and if I had money to blow on all my dream ingredients for all kinds of fun recipes, and a beautiful, efficient, well-outfitted workspace — then would I enjoy cooking again? You know what, maybe! But tbh, I feel like people will do the things they like to do regardless of their circumstances (case in point: me, here, writing this even though I have a zillion other things I should be doing). So if I really liked cooking, I’d probably like it even here and now.

I don’t like cooking, and am not very good at it. I do it, still — I make sure my husband always has a home-cooked dinner of some kind, even if it’s yesterday’s leftovers. But I don’t really fuck with breakfast (unless it’s pancakes/waffles, which I am actually decent at and make quite often, from scratch) or lunch, and my dinners are, at best, adequate. Nor do I care about aesthetics of plating or setting the table or whatever. Meal prep is not a joy, for me. Does this make me less of a woman?

I mean I think it’s obvious that I’m not a “good woman,” by the textbook definition. I’m a homely, frumpily-clad, small-breasted tomboy with cankles, a potty mouth, a bad attitude, and zero social or domestic skills. I’ve never felt girly or womanly. Honestly, I’m super grateful that I didn’t grow up in today’s age of transtrenderism, because if that shit had been popular back when I was a soft-brained kid, I have no doubt I’d have glommed onto the trend and started calling myself a “he/him,” and my liberal atheist parents would have encouraged it, and it would have long-term fucked me up even worse than I already am (lol). (Just pissing everyone off here, today, aren’t I?) Thank God I missed that boat. But anyway: all this to say: I hate cooking; does that make me less of a woman?

Finally getting to the meat of the matter: what is a “good woman,” anyway?

But what do we mean by a “good woman”? What is the textbook definition, and more importantly, who wrote that definition?

I’ll tell you who: men did! Men decided what a “good woman” is — and what they mean when they say “good woman” is: “good wife.”

Which is fine. I’m not complaining about that. That’s natural. And obviously women have a definition of a “good man” that’s gonna be different from a man’s definition. (However, I also think it’s true that women are better at recognizing that a man can be a “good man 🤝👍” without being a “good man 😍🥵” and vice versa — the two are not the same, in fact often quite different; whereas it seems like a lot of men can’t get it through their heads that a woman can be a person of value without being sexually desirable.)

I’m just saying: when I read the sentence “he’s a good man,” I assume anyone of either gender could be speaking, and what comes to mind is: “this man is virtuous, he did a good deed, he did something brave or maybe even heroic, he’s trustworthy and reliable” — but when I read the sentence “she’s a good woman,” first of all I assume a man is speaking, and what comes to mind is: “she’s traditional and feminine, maternal, she cooks and cleans and takes care of her man, and takes care of her house and her physical appearance.” If you want to describe a virtuous, brave, or heroic woman, you say “she’s a good person.” If you saw a woman do something selfless, you would go on to describe her as a “good person,” not a “good woman,” because the latter sounds kind of sexual or even objectifying, like you’re describing a good cow at auction — it doesn’t mean the same thing as “she’s a good person.” Whereas, about a man, the two terms (“a good man” and “a good person”) can be used interchangeably. Is it just me? Am I wrong about this? Do you see what I’m saying?

What I’m trying to get at is: men, and some of us Trad-inclined women, tend to conflate the one definition of “good woman” (“good human being”) with the other (“good wifey”). We tend to think that a woman’s value as a person = her value as a wife. And that is not true. I’m not less of a woman because I suck at cooking. Less of a wife, sure! But that’s no secret, is it?

Brief Tangent About Housewifery and the Purpose of Life

I ain’t much of a housewife. I do my best, and don’t get me wrong, I do love this job! Since becoming a SAHM, I wake up every day with a sense of purpose, because I have the privilege of serving the people I love most in the world, instead of a bunch of often-shitty randos who don’t know me from Adam. It’s honestly so weird when I remember how depressed and suicidal and full of existential despair I used to be, working a job outside the home to support no one but myself. So much what is the fucking point. Might be a life for some, but it was none for me. I love being a housewife! I respect the job, and am always trying to get better at it, trying to improve my cooking, cleaning, and parenting skills — but, for the time being, I also happen to be pretty bad at it, skill-wise. Luckily, we don’t have to be super great at a thing in order to love it and flourish while doing it (exhibit A: me + writing, lol).

Back to the point & Another Question

Being bad at cooking, and/or hating cooking, does not make a woman less of a woman. (To use the real, non-sexual definition of “good woman.”) It makes her less of an ideal wife, sure. Fair enough.

But wait, is marriageability a moral matter? Is it a moral failing to not be good wifey material?

I bumped up against this question in my post about femininity, too. This is one that I can’t seem to decide on an answer to.

If two hypothetical women, Alice and Bertha, are both alike in virtue and holiness and moral qualities and all — love God and their neighbor, selfless, humble, charitable, et cetera — but Alice is a tomboy with short buzzed hair, who wears jeans and t-shirts and has more traditionally masculine hobbies, while Bertha is a super-feminine girl who wears dresses and long hair and loves cooking and taking care of children… is Bertha a “better” person for better exemplifying the qualities natural to womankind? Does she get like bonus points in God’s scorebook for being feminine?

I like to think no. I guess some folks out there would probably argue that Alice doesn’t truly “love God and her neighbor” if she dresses and acts like a dude, because if she really loved God she would honor His design for her as a woman, by being womanly; and if she really loved her neighbor, she would dress more humbly, more appropriately, so as to not call undue attention to herself or present a distraction. This is what my inner critic, Catherine (whom you may remember from this post) is saying in my head right now. But, I somehow don’t believe that Catherine is right.

However, I’m still on the fence with this one, and don’t think I’m going to solve it tonight.

In Conclusion

The dude who made that reel about Russian vs. American women is probably just some gross thirsty incel who’s been rejected by so many American women that he now fetishizes Slavic women and fantasizes about bagging himself a “Snow Latina” who, he imagines, will be just sooo happy to cater to all his needs. 🤮

And anyway, there were plenty of women in the comments going “uhhh, I’m Russian and I never cook” or “I’m American and I cook three times a day” — and someone even pointed out that his sample was rigged because he exclusively interviewed wealthy residents of Moscow. Biased.

And besides, Russia’s national policies really lend themselves to a traditional family structure. Not so in America. Oh no, not so — don’t even get me started. That’s a large part of why our culture looks the way it does. As American women, it’s not our fault. Russian women are not inherently superior — they’re not stronger or made of some better substance, or something. Their culture is just different. If they’d been born and raised in America, they’d be like us, and vice versa. People tend to forget the extent to which they are products of their time and place. People tend to think they’re original and in charge of themselves.

As someone who’s never traveled farther east than Prague, I think it is generally true that Russian/Slavic women are fitter and more feminine than American ones — so what. I do not believe that this reflects negatively on American women. And if you think it does, if you think that a woman’s value as a human being is actually determined by her ability/willingness to feed and take care of a man… then, with all due respect, i.e. zero respect, you can GTFO of here with your bitch ass.

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And on second thought, I’m not even going to allow comments on this one, because I just know you’re all going to be mad at me, lol.
Should I go back to the NO?

June 8th, 2026

Disclaimer: my 10 month old has been allowing me only 2-3 hours of broken sleep per night, lately, which may have had an effect on the following post.

Doubt. Like: as I’ve said before: I’m pro-vaccine, but not completely “sure” of this stance; it just seems like the better option, for now, but I still have doubt. And, to be real honest, this is the same way I’m starting to feel about Traditionalism and my identity as a TradCath. If you’ve read my other Catholic posts, you might be under the impression that I’m super certain, that I’m confident I’ve finally found the Right Church. And I so wanted to be! Man, did I want to be certain of that! But, tbh, I am kind of not.

I saw a post on Facebook a while ago, some [modern] Catholic commentator, talking (disparagingly) about a certain breed of convert who can’t seem to stop converting. They find the Faith, but rather than resting in it, they keep moving, keep getting weird ideas, keep fault-finding, keep yearning, and mentally/spiritually are just always on the move, researching theories, delving into weird niches. Perpetual converts.

Sometimes I worry I’m one of those. Perpetually unsatisfied – always finding some reason why this can’t be it. This feels wrong. — But everything always feels wrong.

And the thing is, by this point, nearly two years into this RadTrad thing, I actually do believe that the SSPX is right about their mission and the state of the Church. I do believe that the new Mass is problematic, and that even the other Trad societies are questionable, that the SSPX is the safest place to get real Catholicism. Call me indoctrinated. But I mean I think it’s pretty evident that the Church is in crisis. Even a secular person can see that. You’d have to reeeeally reach to claim otherwise.

So, here in America at least, folks who go to SSPX are, necessarily, very countercultural. And because they’re all so countercultural, they cling to each other for community. They have to. I’m not complaining about this or accusing anyone. It makes perfect sense, it’s just the way humans are. “We’re the only ones who believe this; the outside world is our enemy; we must stick together and keep each other close.” Survival and all. It’s lovely actually.

But this “tight community” thing also creates an atmosphere of, well, cliqueyness. “If you’re not just like us, you don’t belong.” It ends up feeling like a highly exclusive club.

And I just don’t vibe with that. It spikes my anxiety like crazy. – but, so what? Maybe it doesn’t matter what I “vibe with,” though. Does it?

I’ve said that I’m convinced that the SSPX is right about their mission and the state of the Church. You’d think that that alone ought to be enough to convince me that I’m really, definitely, for sure in the right place, here at an SSPX chapel — vibes be damned. If all the other people who believe in the Truth are people who don’t happen to “vibe” with me, socially, that doesn’t change the fact that the Truth is the Truth. I’m not here to make friends. Community is cool and all, sure, but I’m here for the Sacraments. (My friend “J” used to talk about the problem of Catholics treating their parishes as “sacrament factories”: showing up to get their sacraments and then dipping, without mingling or making friends or developing a sense of community at all. I agree that’s a less than ideal structure, and generally people shouldn’t do that… but at this point, sorry, J, but I literally feel out of options here.)

Does the social atmosphere of a parish really matter? I think if you have plenty of options to pick from, sure. But in this day and age, in this crisis we’re in, we don’t really have the luxury of caring about social atmosphere. Trad parishes are so few and far between. Like most people, I have to travel a long distance to get to mine, and the only other options are prohibitively far away. So, if I were to let social atmosphere sway me, I’d end up back at the NO.

And you know what, maybe I just will! I miss some things about the NO sometimes. I miss how easy it was. Oh man do I miss how easy it was!! I miss not feeling intensely judged and scrutinized every single second that I’m on church property. I miss the ten-minute commute, allowing us to wake at a normal hour and saunter out the door at a normal time for the 11am Mass, which lasted an hour tops. I miss the nursery full of toys where my kids could play while I listened to Mass. I miss not having to struggle so much to get them to behave and sit up straight like The Jones’s perfect kids can behave and sit up straight. Because let’s be real, my kids were some of the only, sometimes the only little kids at that church! All the boomers and seniors were just so happy to see actual, real live children at church – there was no judgment! Or at least, comparatively very little!

Not so at the SSPX! Here, you’re an anomaly if you’re a married woman under 50 and not pregnant. Here, 8-9 is an average number of kids per family. Here, you’re an anomaly if you don’t have 20 acres and a cow. Here, if your kids fidget in Mass, it means that you’re modernist trash and failing as a parent and personally responsible for the downfall of Western society (that’s the vibe I get, anyway). Watch how you dress, watch where you step and when, watch how you speak. Eggshells.

As someone with AVPD, I’m more sensitive to social stress than the average person. Social stress at the NO was maybe 50-60%, about the same as a trip to the grocery store. Social stress at the TLM is a solid 92-98%, every week. It’s enough to really weigh on you, to cast a shadow of dread on the whole back half of the week. It’s gotten to where when I’m at home and see images of the TLM on the internet, I feel slightly queasy, sick with dread. Because it makes me think about the social stress of Sundays. Which is horrible! Only demons feel queasy at the sight of Mass. What is wrong with me. The anticipation of Holy Mass shouldn’t feel like that.

You know what would help?, the little voices say to me: a drink! That would really fix everything! — you see, you could say this is all taking a toll on my poor wittle mental health.

But, is that a good enough reason to switch back to an inferior Mass?

There are a couple of different stories I could choose to tell myself about this whole situation. Story one: me suffering through the social stress at the TLM, and taking the hit to my mental health because it’s a superior Mass, is a good sacrifice that I can offer to God in union with Christ, to show Him I love Him enough to make myself so uncomfortable week after week in order to honor Him as He deserves. This is my little cross, this is my lot in life. Story two: my feelings of dread and fear and “not belonging” are actually my God-given intuition telling me I need to leave, that it really is no place for me; maybe I can “trust my gut” and “listen to my heart,” as they say; maybe the NO is good enough; maybe comfort matters; maybe this is all a lesson in being softer and nicer to myself. Maybe something being more difficult doesn’t necessarily make that thing more noble.

Which story to believe? — well, it ain’t gonna be Story Two. It has a hole in it: I never said that the difficulty is what makes the TLM superior. It’s the other way around. It’s the superiority that makes the TLM difficult.

The TLM is superior, and that is a bigger issue than my anxiety, and that’s all there is to it.

And anyway, my feeling “different” from these people at church – is it just my imagination? I’ve been doing this shit since I was a kid. I’ve been aware of this pattern, but unable to break it, since I was in high school. I tell myself that everyone hates me and I don’t belong, and I start to believe it. And I start “identifying out.” And then leaning into that – really owning it. Doing little passive things to assert my differentness, like a quiet, cowardly middle finger to the imaginary haters. At my first college, the elite private rich white preppy heavily-Greek one, I leaned into the “alt” persona: facial piercings, zippers and grommets, bitterness and angst. Because I’m not like you all. At my second college, the public liberal art school full of weirdos and LGBTQs and atheists, I leaned into the “Conservative Catholic” persona: taking the piercings out, feigning asceticism, going to church, dressing more “normal” than everyone else. Because I’m not like you all. Wherever I go, I’m “not like you all,” and assume everyone hates me and so I start to become the enemy that I imagine myself to be, or whatever. How exhausting, how juvenile. I’ve noticed this tendency rearing its ugly head in me lately as all this church stuff has been weighing on me. It feels great, a small physical gesture, a minor wardrobe shift, a quiet act of rebellion — but is it a good kind of great?

Why do I identify out all the time? And why at church specifically? These people agree with me on the most important thing, and agree with me that it’s the most important thing! We have everything that matters in common! Why must I pull the old “identify out” move here, of all places? – I feel so different from these people. I insist to myself that it’s because I’m not rich or a farmer… but, is it really just my sinfulness? My worldliness? Maybe all these people are just holier than me and I’m mad about it? Because I lack their strength and resilience? Because I like my little worldly comforts too much to let go of all of them? Maybe I feel uncomfortable around them because, in the company of such holy and wholesome individuals, I’m acutely aware of how dirty my soul is. Maybe if I gave up everything – my terrible music, my TV shows, my little stories, and above all this stupid blog where I post shitty, lowbrow, profanity-laden content bitching about my pet peeves and things I hate and gushing about my favorite rappers and my favorite gross shows on HBO and worst of all sharing my own shitty little stories that are all sensual and shallow and celebrate disordered romantic relationships – maybe if I gave up all that, I’d be less ashamed to show my face at Holy Mass.

Probably this is it. But am I willing to give all that up?

Should I shut down this blog, or make it into something else – something holier, where all I ever post is lovely clean wholesome and religious content? I originally created this blog to give my “weird” side a place to sound off – a place where I could be authentically myself, as like an experiment to see if it clicked with anyone out there in the universe. A message in a bottle out to sea. As a mom of littles and a TradCath, I don’t get to be my weird self irl too often if ever; Weird Mith wanted to breathe. I figured I’d let her. I figured this blog is just a bunch of harmless catharsis, but maybe this blog is a big part of the problem.

But watch. Watch me get rid of it and still feel unworthy, like an alien. I’ve tried this tactic before – “maybe going full ascetic monk will make me feel better about myself,” “if you want to have healthy self-esteem, do things that are esteemable,” “just don’t put a single foot wrong ever and everything will be ok” – and it never works. It actually tends to make things worse, and fuel the fire of my extremist, addictive, all-or-nothing thinking.

– but maybe that’s just me making excuses though because this blog is fun for me and I don’t wanna give it up.

So: given that I fully agree with the SSPX philosophically; and, given that I don’t buy Story Two above; and, given that I’m not willing to stop being a weirdo; that leaves me with only one available course of action: continue going to church where I am, and just fucking deal with it. Just put on my big girl pants and grow up and accept that life is hard and etc. etc. etc.

So I guess all this rambling brought me full circle. Right back to where I started. Going to Mass is just going to be a challenge and a sacrifice, I guess. I wish it didn’t have to be like that. Like the great Archbishop, j’accuse the Council: I blame V2. If the Church had never become fractured like it is into the Trads vs. Modernists – if Tradition had remained the norm – then Traditionalism wouldn’t be this exclusive, niche, countercultural thing! Then I wouldn’t feel like I had to “measure up” to belong to my own parish. – but, such are the times we live in. It’s a great tragedy, and keeping in mind what a great tragedy it is for the whole Church actually helps me put my own little suffering in perspective. My little experience of social alienation, it’s just one of many symptoms of the larger problem which is the crisis. For whatever reason God chose for me to live during this era of the Church in crisis. To complain about His will for me would be a gesture of ingratitude and disrespect. So I just have to keep going. So, in this post, I’ve solved absolutely nothing, really, except that maybe this blog is the problem. Maybe Weird Mith needs to die. If I don’t let her breathe anymore, she has to suffocate eventually, right? So I’ve solved nothing — just generated more doubt.
The Greatest Love Story On TV

June 4th, 2026

CAUTION: SPOILERS for the show Vice Principals.

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Friendship and its portrayal in popular media: as you may remember, I’ve addressed this topic before, in my post about the movie The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent — but in light of a recent discovery, I feel a need to bring it up again.

The discovery in question is that of the comedy show Vice Principals on HBO Max. I know, I know — this show came out ten years ago (2016 really was a good year, wasn’t it?) — but, as usual, I’m late to the party. My husband and I had had this one on our “maybe we’ll try this if we run out of other shows” list for like three years. And finally, with all our other options completely dried up, we recently gave it a try.

To my surprise, this ended up being one of the best shows I’ve seen in a long time. Incredible work; I was expecting just a quirky, goofy comedy, but it was actually a really beautiful and tragic character study, and imo an A+ example of “how to make a good TV show.”

TV writers and producers, take note: they kept Vice Principals to a tight two seasons, which is something more shows really, really ought to do. They had a story to tell and they told it and got it done. Few things annoy me more than storytellers who just drag a dead story along like a rotting corpse that they refuse to bury, for the sake of a dollar. (See: From, which had an absolutely incredible first season, but now in season four is floundering out of control and cringe AF; unfortunately, season one was so good that I have to see the damned thing through to the end, now, which should have come a season or two ago, but I digress.)

I could have done without the show’s raunchy humor and the repeated violations of the Second Commandment, which always make me wince — but, that’s HBO for you, I guess (“you’re watching too much of the HBO!”); that’s to be expected, unfortunately. But Vice Principals was actually funniest when it wasn’t being gross.

I can forgive the vulgarity, though, because of how brilliant the show was otherwise. What made it so great, you ask? The same thing that made Unbearable Weight so great: the love story.

It’s always so cool to me to find a good love story, but especially cool to find one that’s specifically about friendship.

Modern media is so oversaturated with romance — and don’t get me wrong, I love romance as much as the next girl! But the older and more jaded I get, the more I find myself more enthralled by this mystical, magical phenomenon of platonic love, of friendship.

What a fascinating thing friendship is. Like I was saying in that other post, as someone with AVPD, friendship has always been kind of mystifying to me. Romantic relationships — those make more sense. There’s an expectation. A transaction. A goal, even. In my teens and twenties, I had plenty of romantic relationships… but almost no friendships. Those, I couldn’t comprehend.

Because what is friendship even for? There’s no goal. You’re not trying to attain some special status with or ownership of the person. You’re not going to get married and have kids. So, what does a friend actually want from you? Whenever my husband tells me that he’s going to see a friend, or that a friend has requested our company, my knee-jerk response is: “why? What for?”

Because what is the point? You mean to tell me they just… enjoy your presence? They just like being around you, even if you’re not doing anything in particular? Even if you’re not getting something useful out of it? Just togetherness, that’s the whole goal?

Mind-boggling. Absolutely wild.

My favorite kind of love stories anymore are these: the kind that’s completely non-sexual, but with all the power and devotion and intensity of a fairytale romance. Platonic soulmates. I freaking love seeing people who love their friends.

And friendships, it would seem, can have a lot of the same hallmarks as romantic relationships — a lot of the same dynamics, minus the lust. Personally, I’m a sucker for both the “enemies to lovers” and the “extrovert+introvert” trope — and, as my readers know, I always swoon over a good tragic ending in which for whatever reason the couple just can’t be together. 😍 The love story in Vice Principals offers all of these, in a beautifully lust-free context.

I discussed in the other post how it’s especially cool to see a lust-free love story about two straight men. Male friendships are particularly fascinating to me. Why? Maybe because men are more naturally inclined to lust¹, so a lust-free love is more unexpected, in them — or maybe because I myself am female so it’s just more foreign. In any case, there needs to be more media portrayal of lust-free love stories between two straight males.²

The best episode, and the one that encapsulates the love story most tidily and beautifully, is season one episode five, “Circles.” The part where Neal shows up and punches out the nasty neighbor with the confiscated brass knuckles — and then lets Lee take credit for it when his wife shows up — and this was before they were even officially friends!, this was the unspoken turning point in their relationship. Just🤌

(I must also point out one thing the show did really well, unrelated to the love story: Amanda’s arc as an aspiring novelist. The crazed, desperate “I just want to know if it’s any good” — and Neal being the only one to “get” her work, and how that makes her love him more — and Neal’s ex telling her at that party, “you should write Nicholas Sparks novels!” and the way you can see her groan inwardly — ugh, all so painfully relatable, for any wannabe writer like myself! Amanda was a great character, and I was glad that they made her more than just a hot blonde.)

So: take all the best tropes from erotic love stories, but put them in the context of a purely platonic one. Kinda funny to mention purity when we’re talking about such a lewd show, but pure is exactly what their friendship is, and the vulgarity of the surrounding story actually serves to highlight the purity and innocence of their love.³ Add in the two main characters’ (and actors’!) incredible chemistry, the superb pacing of the story, and the unhinged, slightly-surreal comedy, which surrealism sometimes, like here, allows a story to be more real — it all adds up to Vice Principals being, in my correct opinion, the greatest love story on TV.

Do you know any other great movies/ shows/ books/ songs that celebrate platonic friendship, whether male or female? Give me your recommendations!

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Footnotes

1. It’s true, don’t @ me. I’m not here to complain about men, though, nor am I saying that women are any better. Women are just as pathetically desperate to be desirable and pleasing and cared-for as males are to penetrate. I do think it’s arguable though that, of these two selfish tendencies, lust is the more selfish, and the more icky. However, lust is also less all-pervading, psychologically — more compartmentalizable. What I mean by that is, I think women’s desire to be desirable/ preferred over others can infect everything for them, even their female friendships, leading to cattiness, bitchiness, competition, and two-facedness.ª Whereas male friendships, untainted by lust, are free to be pure, sweet, simple, and wholesome — all traits that our culture doesn’t typically associate with masculinity, but which are, in fact, peak masculinity. Maybe that’s why I find it so attractive when men have devoted friendships with other men. Like yes sir, I see that you are capable of a totally unselfish love and that your masculinity is so strong as to be unthreatened by expressions of fondness and affection for another man 👀 — ok, I see you. To employ a meme, imo “the sluttiest thing a man can do is be a good platonic friend to his bros” — which is, perhaps, kind of ironic, or something.

a. Or maybe this is all just me exposing my own sad paranoia and inability to trust anyone. “Women are catty and men are just disgusting dogs! Just avoid everyone, and you’ll be perfectly happy and safe! A flawless strategy — what could go wrong?!”

2. I only know a few. Two of my favorite “bros before hoes” anthems are this one and, of course, this one (NSFW).

3. “But Mith,” you may be arguing, “their love was anything but pure and innocent! It was toxic AF, and that’s why they had to break up and could never be together” — that’s a good point, but I would argue that the reason their dynamic was so toxic was because Lee is very mentally ill; he has deep psychological issues, as well as a bigger, more dominating personality than Neal, who is basically good but weaker and more of a follower. These weaknesses combined lead to them enabling each others’ worst behavior — but despite all that, underneath it all, they do genuinely love each other. They are each other’s closest and deepest and most profound relationship, and they’d each die for the other in a heartbeat, even now. 10/10.
Happy Feast of Saint Kevin

June 3rd, 2026

, a.k.a Naomh Caoimhín (or Cóemgen), Abbott of Glendalough, Patron Saint of blackbirds, the Archdiocese of Dublin, and the Republic of Ireland. Also, the patron saint of me.

This will not be a very informative post, but more of a personal reflection, so if you’re looking for historical info on St. Kevin, you can move right along (or, shoot me an email and I can recommend some cool books).

Icon by Uncut Mountain Supply, which is actually Orthodox, not Catholic, but they do beautiful work and I highly recommend them

As I said, this is not an informative post — but here are the basics, in case you’re unfamiliar. St. Kevin lived in 6th century Ireland, and became a hermit in the wilderness at Glendalough, County Wicklow, then was made an Abbott when a monastic city grew up around him there. In this icon, which is my favorite depiction of him, you can see the round tower and his cell, both still located at his monastery in Glendalough.

You can also obviously see the blackbird’s nest. The most famous legend about St. Kevin is the one where, as he was praying in his cell, a blackbird alit upon his outstretched hand, and Kevin, who like many of those Celtic Saints had a particular affinity for nature and animals, remained so still and peaceful in prayer that the bird built a nest there, and laid her eggs right in his hand. The Saint thus remained kneeling for the whole forty days of Lent, until the baby birds hatched on Easter.

Or so the legend goes. There are more stories like this about my patron saint. He also had supernatural exchanges with a cow, an otter, even a sea monster. Who knows if those things “really happened.” I like to believe that they did, but imo it doesn’t really matter that much.

Saint Kevin probably gets so fed up with hearing from me, some random weird American girl who’s not even a very good Catholic. I imagine he wonders how come I don’t go pester some other, more popular saint, like St. Thérèse of Lisieux or St. Teresa of Avila or St. Gemma Galgani or St. Catherine of Siena or any other of those great women who are frequently chosen as patronesses of white female English-speaking Catholics. Why did I choose a male hermit from the sixth century, whose feast day isn’t even mentioned in the Roman calendar — or, I guess you might ask, why did he choose me?

Story time. Way back in 2007 when I was still a depraved atheist teenager with no regard whatsoever for my eternal soul, I tagged along on a family vacation to Ireland, and was taken on a day trip to Glendalough as a tourist.

It made an impression. If you haven’t been there, you should go; see for yourself. I remember thinking: “wow! Christianity is still dumb, but whatever this guy Kevin was about — that, I kind of feel like I could get on board with!”

Seven years later (and the significance of that symbolic number doesn’t elude me, now), I was officially received into the Catholic Church. I took St. Kevin’s name at my Baptism, because I felt like I owed my conversion, in large part, to him.

But also because back then, in my early twenties, I still took great pleasure in being “weird” and “different,” as a Catholic. I was still pretty liberal. I wasn’t like those basic, “cookie-cutter” Catholic girls who went with Thérèse or Catherine — no, not I! I was edgy and unique! I pretended to roll my eyes and lament that no one had ever heard of my Patron Saint, but was secretly tickled.

But as time went on and I became — well, I won’t say a “better” Catholic, but hopefully a less-bad one, I stopped wanting to look so unique and edgy. Humility and all. I learned to appreciate the Little Way. Now, I longed to look more “cookie-cutter.” For a time there, I worried that maybe I should have chosen a more “normal” Patron Saint. Like maybe I’d done something wrong.

Until one day I was chatting with my good friend “J” (whom you may know from this post; God rest his soul), and he asked me about my patron saint, and I, all abashed and apologetic, launched into my spiel about how I’d chosen Saint Kevin of Glendalough back when I was still a stupid liberal edgelord Catholic. But J, without hesitation, was like: “no, that makes sense; he’s a perfect saint for you. I totally believe that he chose you. I’ll pray to him for you.”

It was like a little light went on. Something clicked or something. Ever since then I’ve felt less apologetic about my Catholic identity: a child of Saint Kevin, one of the legendary Celtic patrons of Ireland, shrouded in mystery and poetry and, well, weirdness. Because really, the legends of the Celtic Saints are pretty bizarre at times. It’s a whole other flavor of the Faith.

There are many more things I could say, both about the Life of Saint Kevin and about my friendship with him, but I won’t keep you too long. I’ll just say this: initially I was drawn to him because of his solitary nature: the way he retreated far away from society, spurning human companionship (even kicking one girl off a ledge, they say — don’t worry, she was fine) in favor of that of animals. But over the years, I’ve come to see more clearly how God intends me to learn from Kevin’s example (the aforementioned kicking of the girl off the ledge is not irrelevant here). And I continue to see it more and more clearly, in quiet and nuanced ways, as time goes on and I spend more time with the stories of this great Saint.

Which imo is just concrete proof that God knows what He is doing long before we do. An appropriate analogy here, Glendalough being such a wooded place, is our inability to “see the forest for the trees.” While I’m getting overwhelmed and confused by tree after tree, God sees the forest, and always has. Saint Kevin, model of courage, went into that forest and made a home there. Saint Kevin, model of humility and charity, then allowed people to come to him and build a city even though he preferred solitude. Saint Kevin, model of patience, let another creature make their home in his very hand. Saint Kevin, Abbott of Glendalough, ora pro nobis. Happy Feast Day, readers.
Compliments from uggos: okay or no?

May 26th, 2026

**Note: I, the writer, am an uggo myself, so don’t @ me. I’m a solid 2/10, maybe a 3 on a really good day.**

I’ve noticed a meme lately in which conventionally-attractive or fashionable individuals post about how they don’t want compliments from unattractive people. Apparently, compliments are only valuable now if they come from someone that you perceive as equal or superior to yourself.

I take issue with this.

In theory, I get it. I would absolutely rather receive a compliment on my writing from Donna Tartt than from some teenager with an AO3 account. Similarly, I’d much rather have a priest call me virtuous than your average secular rando on the street.

However, does that mean that I would turn up my nose at a compliment from a teenage fanfic writer? Does that mean I wouldn’t still appreciate the secular rando’s generosity? Of course not!

Of course I’d still be grateful. Even if I wouldn’t take advice from these people on the craft of writing or the spiritual life, that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate their seeing me in a positive light and going out of their way to try to be kind.

Because maybe the teenage fanfic writer aspires to learn to write better — maybe she’s trying to elevate and hone her own craft — I should be honored that they see me as an inspiration for that! Or maybe she doesn’t aim to write well herself, but still appreciates good writing. Also cool. And maybe the secular rando is quietly interested in the spiritual life and looking for a way in. To be able to point them in the right general direction by my example would be a huge privilege and honor.

Because here’s the thing. Being an uggo does not preclude one from being able to recognize and appreciate beauty and fine taste.

Personally: I don’t bother too much with my appearance. I do very minimal makeup, because I lack the confidence, budget, and frankly the motivation to do a more glamorous look. Same with my clothes. I don’t like my body, so I dress to conceal the meat-tank in an appropriate way.

But that doesn’t mean I think I’m a great dresser. My look is in no way an example of my actual taste. Just because I dress bad doesn’t mean I like bad clothes!

I am, in fact, able to recognize when someone dresses well or does their makeup well, and I love to see it! If beautifying yourself is how you choose to spend your time, energy, and money, I love that for you! You and I are different people with different priorities. I can see that you are good at something I am not good at. Why must you take my opinion so personally, as if I’m contaminating you with my respect?

Why can’t you take a simple compliment? Even if I’m not exactly Donatella Versace, doesn’t it feel nice to know that some little ordinary person appreciates your efforts?

In truth, I don’t compliment strangers anymore, or anyone that I don’t know too well. I used to do so pretty often — but now, I see it as too risky. You never know who’s gonna take it the wrong way.

So it’s not like I’m personally butthurt by these fashionistas online telling me not to compliment them. Because I don’t do that anyway. It’s more that I just don’t get it — the arrogance. You think you’re so great, so superior, that us basics don’t even deserve to form a positive opinion of you? Talk about ugly. That’s such an ugly way to be.

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One of my favorite things to see is celebrities who love and celebrate their fans. Like how Nicki calls her fans “Barbs” and Megan calls her fans “Hotties,” and so on. When they thank the fans and express love for us. As a fan, it makes you feel so uplifted! Like: yes, I am a hottie — Megan herself says so! Even if I am just a little old trash person! I love it when celebs, with all their money and power and privilege, appreciate us little plain people and are grateful for us and lift us up like that. — So why do these ordinary influencers, who aren’t even anywhere near as beautiful or powerful or rich as Nicki and Megan, think they’re above being liked by normies and uggos? You think you’re better than Thee Stallion?!

Now, I guess it’s possible that I’m just way too easily moved by compliments — by others’ feedback in general. I have AVPD, which means I have not just shitty self-esteem, but a fundamental, unshakeable conviction that I suck. So whenever someone deigns to say something nice about me, it makes me feel like I owe them something in return. (Predictably, in my youth, I was one of those sad girls who said “sure” to any boy who gave them attention, no matter how gross he was, because she felt like she owed them something for being so kind as to find her attractive.) Maybe if I had healthier self-respect, I wouldn’t see compliments from others as valuable, or meaningful at all, unless they came from above.

Maybe people who respect themselves think of compliments in terms of their usefulness. I guess if that’s how you think, I can see how a useless nicety from a nobody would be simply annoying, just an empty little gesture, whereas a compliment from a role model would be a helpful confirmation that you’re achieving your goals.

However: I still maintain that it should not be beneath you to be gracious. You don’t have to believe my compliment matters in order to say “thanks” and move on.

To be bothered by it — that actually seems to betray an essential fragility or insecurity, doesn’t it? If you think being liked by an uggo can bring you down somehow.

A truly secure person should be able to accept and move on. Would Megan really, honestly think I was a “hottie” if she saw me on the street? Lol, thats funny. But she’s also a gracious person who’s secure enough not to be threatened by respect from an uggo.

And besides: here’s the other thing: you don’t even know if that person really means what they’re saying!

Personally, I never trust compliments on my physical appearance from strangers, not anymore. I firmly believe that people don’t mean what they’re saying most of the time, and that more often than not they’re actually making fun of you.

If the tour guide at the children’s museum compliments my beat-up, decade-old $30 combat boots from Target, ain’t know way I believe she means it. It’s just awkward now. If some random teen girl at the trampoline park tells me I’m pretty, I’m flustered and embarrassed and can’t get away from her fast enough. I always wish they hadn’t said anything. Not because I think they’re beneath me, but because I don’t like small talk and I don’t trust them or their intentions.

To all you snobs who are so butthurt by an ugly person’s compliment: why do you assume they meant it? They’re probably just bored and making small talk — or quietly laughing at your weird choices.

There are just so many reasons why you are wrong. With all due respect.

In conclusion: if you’re someone who refuses to take a compliment from someone you perceive as beneath you: I’ll just leave you to meditate upon the words of the great Kendrick Lamar, “bitch, sit down; be humble.”
Is raq right?

May 24th, 2026

TW: I do not recommend checking out the profile in question here if you’re someone who struggles with disordered eating/poor body image. In fact, you might not even want to read me quoting some of the things it says in its reels — I know there was a time when it would have been really damaging for me to even read such things secondhand — so, maybe you should just skip this whole post entirely.

If you keep up with any health & fitness or “body positive” or body size-related content on social media, you may have noticed recently that a certain influencer who calls themselves “@raqisright” is going rather viral. If you aren’t familiar, I’ll summarize what’s going on:

The account has blown up in popularity due to this person, purportedly a woman named Raq (I say “purportedly” because I get the sense this whole account might be not an actual person but just a troll, using a hired actress or something, and could very well be run by some douchebag named Jayden posting from his parents’ basement or some such), posting highly incendiary ragebait about how skinniness is everything and “fat” people (130 is fat, to her, btw) are all losers who need to shut up and cover up. Her slogan is: “make America hot again” (lol). And her claim to fame, if I’m not mistaken, was a reel of her ranting about how girls need to “act their weight,” i.e. don’t you dare act confident if you’re not skinny — “take that attitude to the treadmill.”

As you can imagine, tons of content creators, especially those in the “body positive” sphere, are totally up in arms about Raq. They’re stitching her reels left and right, all enraged and in a tizzy, an absolute uproar, about this “raqisright.”

But… is Raq right?

Maybe you don’t want to hear my take. Maybe I’m not the “right” person to discuss this question, seeing as how I’m not exactly “free” from disordered ideas about eating, myself. (Those demons and I, we signed some treaties, a while ago, and we have a comfortable working relationship these days. I didn’t want to, but it was the only way, since there was no way to evict them entirely.) However, I’m pretty “recovered,” at this point in my life, and I think I actually have a pretty healthy handle on this whole topic, a healthy emotional distance from it. I don’t get #triggered about weight/body image stuff anymore, really, so I can talk about it calmly and, I like to think, objectively. And, perhaps my history — having spent my entire life (from age 14 on) in the ED/recovery world, and having been all over the map, at every extreme, both philosophically and weight-wise, finally landing somewhere in the middle in both those areas — actually might give me the credentials to say something of value on this issue.

So here goes.

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There’s one major reason why people are rightfully mad at Raq. And it’s not because those people got their personal feelings hurt by her content. It’s because they are worried about how her content could affect young girls.

People my age, we are seeing the resurgence of heroin chic (call it Ozempic chic now, I guess), and it scares us; we hoped that it was gone for good, that we as a species had moved past all that, but once again it’s rearing its gaunt and emaciated head, in the world of female beauty standards. We worry about our daughters and their peers.

I get that. I have daughters myself. I’m doing all I can to shelter them from this weight-obsessed world for as long as I can. Recently, they heard a little friend of theirs use the term “fat dumb idiot” as a joke, much to my chagrin, and now I’m over here having to try to teach them that “fat” is not an insult (on my knees, holding their little shoulders and staring into their eyes like repeat after me: all bodies are good bodies, no joke), but it’s also not something we call someone to their face because it can hurt feelings. Try explaining that nuance to a four-year-old. I hate this world. I absolutely don’t want my kids exposed to “thinspo,” to skinnyism, to this message that Raq is preaching.

We absolutely need to cancel content creators that promote EDs. We need to quietly shut them down and not give them another second of our time (which, I’m aware, is exactly what I am not doing, with this blog post, lol). So if you’re really angry at Raq, I get that.

Why am I not more angry, then?

I guess, tbh, I feel for her. I kind of even adore her. And I also don’t think she’s entirely wrong.

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Like I said, I don’t think “Raq” is an actual person, so much as a symptom. Her voice is just the voice of my ED and yours; the voice that we all know so well, and a voice that, as I mentioned, I’ve long since accepted and made my peace with. Maybe that’s why I kind of love Raq. She feels so familiar.

And my heart kind of aches for her, this pretty young woman, because when I was at a point where I fully leaned into this philosophy she preaches — a point where, if I’d had Instagram and a bit more style and confidence, I probably would have created a very similar account, saying the very same shit, tbh — I was the most unhappy I’ve ever been in my life. Letting that voice take over, it does give you a short-term emotional reward, for sure, but it destroys you internally. There is no real happiness, for someone who subscribes to those teachings.

But her account so beautifully encapsulates the short-term emotional reward that I was just talking about: the fantasy of being skinny, pretty, desirable, and better than everyone else because you work harder than everyone else, you can do what those fat slobs are too lazy to do — that high feeling of caffeine on an empty stomach, where it feels like you are light as a feather and you can conquer the world and you are absolutely deserving of everything and morally unimpeachable: that’s the exact emotion that her page illustrates.

Problem is, that feeling is a lie. It’s a mirage, and not sustainable in reality.

So yes, it’s bad to perpetuate this idea — to glamourize the ED life. She should absolutely take her page down, and I hope she does, as part of her own healing process.

But at the same time… is she entirely 100% wrong? I genuinely don’t think she is. Stick with me.

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Tbh I kind of adore this Raq, the same way I adore someone like Britney, or Regina George, or Nicki Minaj (or hip hop stars in general, for that matter). Their world is so different from my own — I don’t want my kids exposed to it, and I personally could never live like that, and have no desire to!, it doesn’t line up with my moral beliefs; but from a safe distance I find them so lovely, so entertaining, so adorable; their confidence is so impressive, and their aesthetic so pleasing, it gives me great fond feelings of “girl power” and all that, and with my whole heart I wish them all the best.

I actually really hope Raq is a real person, and that she’s as happy as she says she is. Because the alternative is that behind the username lurks either a desperately sad girl who wants to die, and/or some pathetic troll just trying to upset people. Also, I like to think that this beautiful life she describes having is a real thing, for someone. That’s a nice thought.

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Finally — and this is the controversial part, so bear with me: I don’t think she’s entirely wrong.

There was a time, not too long ago, when content like hers was just normal. We were all used to it. Nowadays, with the advent of body positivity and #awareness, we’re all so used to having our feelings coddled, that when someone speaks like Raq, without regard for our feelings, it hits like a criminal offense. How dare she! How dare anyone say anything that might offend someone!

But, actually, Raq is right, I think, in a way. Body positivity has, imo, gone too far. And while I don’t agree that heavy women shouldn’t be allowed to be confident or sassy or dress cute, I also agree with Raq that we shouldn’t be “normalizing” obesity.

There’s this fine line here, this gray area, that I don’t know if we as a society are capable of living in because we like extremes too much. But obesity needs to be de-normalized without being stigmatized.

No, it’s not good to be overweight, just the same way it’s not okay to be sick. But that also doesn’t mean that fat people don’t get to exist, to post photos of themselves, to find love, to dress however they want.

We need to stop with the “love your body at every size” thing. Loving your body is not necessary. It’s just a body.

We don’t all need to love our bodies. Nor do other people need to love our bodies. (Someone once commented: “women’s bodies are not advertisements for women’s bodies,” and I think that sums it up.) And fatness is a very normal symptom of life in 2026 America, so it’s just stupid to get mad at people for developing this condition when our society and way of life make it dangerously easy to develop.

But that was a tangent. My point is, I think that someone like Raq does deserve to be proud of themselves for being fit in a culture that promotes fatness. You don’t have to love your body, but if you do, that’s nice; congrats to you. Being healthy and pretty is not necessary, not morally relevant, but still good. I do think we should bring back beauty. I do think we should be less afraid of getting our feelings hurt.

But what about my daughters?: well, as their mom, I’m not letting them use social media unsupervised until they’re eighteen. Social media is the wild wild west, it’s a free-for-all, it’s filthy and unsafe and no responsible parent would let their kids on there. We all know this, or ought to.

If you can’t handle getting your feelings hurt, don’t go on social media. And certainly don’t let your kids on there.

Content creators like “Raq” are just trying to make a living, with their little ragebait. They’re not our babysitters. It’s not their job to protect our kids — it’d be nice, if they cared enough to be mindful of our kids’ mental health, and I’d sure appreciate seeing that; but that’s simply not how this world works. “People gotta eat,” as they say (or, not eat, if you’re Raq, lol). I do feel bad for those young girls who will stumble upon content like Raq’s and be harmed by it. I hope their mothers are there for them.

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The bottom line for me: I wish we could just shut up about bodies. I wish people like “Raq” would shut up. I wish the HAES crowd would shut up. I wish the whole health & fitness industry would shut tf up. It’s an unrealistic thing to wish for, but a girl can dream. They say humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less, and I wish we could all have such a humble attitude about bodies. The moral weight that’s attached to body size, for us, is so fucking exhausting.

I wish we could talk about body size in a neutral way, that Raq didn’t have to claim moral superiority, that fat people didn’t have to fight for their right to just exist, that people didn’t see skinny women and start shitting their pants and yelling “sOmEoNe giVe hEr a ChEesEbUrgEr” and that people who prefer fat bodies weren’t seen as having some weird fetish or miswiring in their brain. Bodies come in different sizes, some healthy and some not; so what. This bizarre obsession with being able to run a mile or do a pushup or whatever, as if that’s the ultimate defining factor of health — so fucking what. I’m so tired of it.

In conclusion: Raq, if you’re real, keep doing you. Society’s gone to shit anyway, so you may as well keep shining, though I hope you find healing in time if that’s what you need. I won’t make assumptions. You’re beautiful and bold and I sincerely hope you’re okay. Best believe I won’t be letting my daughters anywhere near your circle of influence though.