I am writing by the seat of my pants this morning because I don’t have anything prepared but I’m not giving up my publishing streak. 44 weeks now.
In other streaks, I am 197 days sober since giving up weed and booze in September.
In a new and glistening streak this is my fifth day of experimenting with the carnivore diet. Anyone out there carnivore curious? I started with keto because I was tired of my depression and anxiety flaring up like a migraine or arthritis and knew it would work because Andrew Huberman says so, haha, and really because of personal experience—I went Primal for a year or so back in 2011, way before trans and politics bamboozled my world, and my anxiety and depression just lifted. Like POOF. Gone. But I couldn’t sustain it, so I thought, well this shit is obviously chemical, these horrible soul-searing feelings that make me want to die, and why looky here, there IS a pill for it. So I sold my soul to big pharma and have been swallowing bitter little Lexapros since 2012. Which means I am wholly under-prepped for the zombie apocalypse, which is upon us ANY DAY NOW.
My shrink agrees it’s okay to titrate to fifteen milligrams from twenty until June, because why wouldn’t anyone want to curtail their lifelong meds if they could, with lifestyle tweaks? He’s all for it. Cool guy. And Mr. Miller thinks I’m insane, but that is why he married me. He’s all bread, no spice, and I’m all spice, with a side of fried beef fat. Or all beef fat with a side of fried steak. But he supports me. In spirit.
And the energy renaissance is true, like I’m not bouncing off the walls, but I had enough to listen to my new girl crush Mikhaila Peterson and clean my damn house for once instead of sitting around waiting for the next chapter of my life to begin since everything has felt so sad and old and stale for so fucking long. And I thought, maybe Miss Miller’s migraines and poor circulation is due to her room being a pathological disaster. So I went in there while she was at “school” learning being indoctrinated and even grabbed Mr. Miller to help and we vacuumed and dusted and I threw away a bunch of crap she’s hoarded over the years. Here’s the funniest and stupidest thing I tossed in the garbage:
Of course instead of being grateful she’s mad because I stole her autonomy to be a disgusting slob. But I didn’t do it for her to thank me. And no, haters, I’m not saying my daughter is disgusting—only her inclination to never ever clean ANYTHING—and PS, have YOU seen her room? And yes I love her. Otherwise I wouldn’t care enough to bother. People out there have told me I do not like or respect Miss Miller because I refuse to entertain or affirm her trans identity. Can you imagine. Of course you can. That’s why we’re here.
So the diet, as strict as it is and as insane as it looks from the mainstream world where Mr. Miller resides for most of the year, is really detoxifying my mind. I don’t know if I want to stick with it for the long haul, but I had to try it. It’s just so alluringly streamlined. Mr. Miller and I joke that it’s completely on-brand for me to do something—anything—to the extreme. No shades of grey for Mrs. Miller.
And speaking of grey, Mr. Miller and I are doing something unprecedented in 2024. We are enjoying a Netflix show together. It’s the new-fangled black and white visual eye candy mystery remake, Ripley. I loved the original movie with goofy Goop and Matt Damon and Jude Law. Remember the character Freddie, played by that dead genius, Philip Seymour Hoffman?
Guess who’s playing Freddie in 2024? It’s this guy woman:
Smack my head, barely fifteen minutes into episode two of the limited series, after we’ve not only passed the five minute test but fully melted into the sofa and Committed™, we get this casting train wreck.
In the blink of a meat-eating eye I went from being fully immersed to fully irritated and diving into my phone for answers. Like, who is she? Sting and Trudie’s daughter. How does she identify? Non-binary. What was her birth name? Eliot Paulina ‘Coco’ Sumner.
Freddie 2.0 is a dreary political plant in an otherwise perfectly enjoyable noir thriller. Absurdity ensues from the get-go since Freddie is so. obviously. female. But when, spoiler alert, Freddie is murdered, during the brief autopsy scene nobody but nobody realizes this “man” is actually a woman, which if they had, would have eclipsed the entire narrative because why wouldn’t it?
And I got to thinking, the braggadocio enorme to swagger around pretending to be a bonafide guy, in a 1950s setting no less, and all your costars—who are acting circles around you anyway—have to overlook the glaring reality before their eyes, is just—beyond selfish. Beyond entitled. Just, what a fucking asshole—not only Eliot but everyone on the production team who made this happen. Like, is it really more important to peddle political ideology than to honor source material? Like fuck you.
I’m not saying all entertainment is ruined by the inclusion trans-identified people. Not at all. Case in point! I am DELIGHTED with this YouTuber who annoys internet scammers for a living. This dude calls those 888 numbers and keeps them on the phone, driving them crazy, for HOURS. Take a look at this and try not to laugh:
Rinoa Poison is trans-identified, MtF as far as I can tell and yes I did rabbit hole to find out. Not because I’m obsessed with people’s packages but because I hate bullshit and love truth and want to know it. Rabbit-holing aside, Rinoa being trans is so far beside the point of these videos it’s in another zip code. The videos are hysterical regardless. Try a couple out. You won’t be disappointed.
To wrap up on this non-rainy Sunday, the title of this post is from an imaginary conversation I had in the kitchen this morning. A co-worker at my newish side hustle likes to pretend the bar belongs to him and him only. He’s a whiny little baby and when I told him the microwave to get off my jock, wiener, I knew it would be the title of this masterpiece you just consumed.
💚🤍❤️
You're a great writer, Mrs. Miller. When I see your latest piece in my inbox, I think, "yay."
Still, I look forward to the day when your daughter's delusions are quelled such that when she looks in the mirror she sees only herself.
RIP Ripley. Husband handed it over uninterested so I was going to make it an iPad show for the tub, and was looking forward. Can’t do it. Appreciate the warning label. Also I’m not on a carnivore diet but after listening to one podcast on it I started cooking more meat again, everyone’s happy and I am most def more grounded, less moody. Big fan of your direct, refreshing work. Keep ‘em comin!!