A Proclamation, a Podcast, and a Poo

Setting a date on working towards a goal is delaying the inevitable, dontcha think? It’s like saying, “Yes! I’m going to be a better person…eventually," and then going off into a corner to file your nail. This is why I happen to believe that New Year's resolutions are a farce, just like businessmen on New Jersey Transit.

Sure. Resolutions work for some people in changing their habits, but so does A.A., which happens to be available the other 364 days of the year that don’t involve champagne. That said, my proverbial 12 Steps towards 2016 begin today with this here proposal.

I, a twenty-nothing Lifestyle Amateur with a decent food blog, am writing a cookbook, starting riiiiight now.

Okay, so maybe not exactly right now. I’m on the train and would appreciate a shower and some dinner first, but you know what I mean.

Since starting this blerg, I’ve received a number of comments from friends and family, stating, more so than questioning, “You’re going to write a cookbook, right?” Uh, ya. Duh. Except I only have like 3 decent recipes in my personal arsenal. So, in order to collect recipes, I’m going to seek them out by picking the brains of self-starting makers, shakers, and pumpkin pie bakers to discover their personal recipes for success that made them who they are today.

For instance, if I were to be interviewing myself, I would submit my mom’s eggplant parmesan. It’s a dish that tastes like home; the place where I grew into the person that I am today and grounds me when I’m feeling lost.

So here goes it! If you know of a female who is as inspiring as shit who would have a fantastic story and/or recipe to bring to the table, please PLEASE drop a line to mia@theoliveeye.com or just like, text me if you have my number. I promise that I have experience speaking with people professionally, with evidence to prove it right here. Questions? Drop em in the comments box at the bottom of the page.

No queries are stupid queries, unless you request for me to interview Ariana Grande (Spoiler Alert: I will not for at least another 30 years).

Finally, one last note before I let you listen to my intro, which was recorded on my headphones’ mic en route home from the gym (#fancy). In my ramble, I bring up a disordered eating habit that I struggled with during college. This is not a sensationalist ploy for sympathy or pity to engage with my work, and I don't want the project to be just about that. I just believe that if I expect women who I meet to be honest with the secret ingredients that go into making them who they are, that I should do the same. I sought out help since recognizing the problem, eat less like a psychopath (but still miss my mouth frequently), and feel that by opening a dialogue that I might encourage others to do the same. 

Besides, drama + time, and in my case, + butter = comedy, so let’s hop out of the past into the frying pan, bitches. Here's my intro:

Epilogue: I finally pooped four hours later and my colon felt like a Coldplay song.


Analyze & Discuss

Which Coldplay song best describes your intestinal bliss?