If I’ve had a single pour of whisky, I am drunk.
Pouring oil into coffee is something straight out of a horror movie. Expect stares. Smile. The least I can do is seem like a happy body-snatched-human.
If I’ve so much as sniffed a whisky, I am drunk.
Not all meals should be converted to keto. Some stories are not meant to be translated.
Keto is for my body, not despite it, not in spite of it, not in despise of it.
Carbohydrates are important to so many people, be gentle when explaining why this way works for me. Be gentle when explaining how much better I sleep, how much more manageable my fears are.
Imagine everyone who asks is Mama, holding a stack of plates in one hand and homemade tortillas in the other. This is how they grieve. This is how they love. This is how they reach me.
When I talk about why it is not right for me, be as careful as I am when I empty Mama of the things she needs to give.
The plates are sacred. The tortillas are sacred.
Take what she has offered. Listen.
Set the table for everyone, but do not forget I have a space here too.
Tell her, if she asks:
I am trying to be drunk on less: the life I have, not the life I want.
I am exercising new muscles, so I can hold everything in stronger hands.
I am trying to live like you.
I am trying to set a table of my own,
where I give everything I have to what I love,
where I am included in what I love,
as sacred as the first meal I ever ate,
as sacred as the first meal I ever made,
as sacred as everything that has ever held nourishment for me,
as sacred as you.
I am trying to set a table of my own
where I empty,
and I pour,
and I give,
and always, always,