When the vibe is right, you’re not just in a room; you’re in a portal. Atmosphere can take you to a level that’s almost spiritual. It’s the spark that flips chaos into clarity. It’s the glow that makes your goals feel not just possible but magnetic. Your surroundings are whispering to you, whether you realize it or not. The question is, are they telling you to slump, scroll, and rot? Or are they hyping you up to be the best damn version of yourself?

On the way to work this morning, I passed a billboard of Dolly Parton. Her silhouette lit up, hair like a crown, sparkle in her presence even through a flat piece of print. And right across it: “Find the good in everybody.” Then, almost like a nudge from the universe: Kindness, pass it on.

It stopped me.

I’ve got a new mantra…

Privacy = Power

Let me say this slow for the bitches in the back, the ones who post their Chick-fil-A nuggets like they just signed a peace treaty with the Pope: nobody needs to know what the fuck you’re doing every second of your day…

First off, it’s not about how I know; it’s just that I do. I may or may not have recently been “blocked” by someone who realized I probably know their wife. So let me clear this up right now before Brenda starts clutching pearls and connecting imaginary dots…no, I did not fuck your husband…

Somewhere along the way, social media convinced us that our opinions deserve a permanent stage. The microphone is always on, the audience is always watching, and damn it, we’re always talking. But you know what else happened? The art of privacy, the ability to just be with people without dissecting their entire worldview got lost in the shuffle.

Back then, you could have coffee with your neighbor, laugh about the weather, bitch about your job, and never once know if they voted for someone you hate, prayed to someone you don’t, or believed in something you’d never. It wasn’t fake, it was functional. It was called coexistence.

And I miss that.

Subliminal Bullshit Ain’t Cute

Let me say this loud enough so the ghost of your middle-school crush can hear it: if you’re constantly posting cryptic-ass nonsense that nobody understands, it’s not “mysterious.” It’s not “deep.” It’s not giving Lana Del Rey meets Tortured Poets Department chic. No. It’s giving mentally unwell pigeon screaming into the void and hoping someone throws you a breadcrumb of attention.

Hey you beautiful disasters,

How the hell is your summer? Hopefully you’re staying cooler than a vodka tonic in a Yeti cup, because August has been out here acting like it’s trying to roast us all rotisserie-style. I hope you’ve been doing the fun shit, making bad decisions worth retelling, and keeping the drama to a minimum—or at least juicy enough to entertain your group chat.

There are very few things from my childhood that still bring me comfort as an adult. My tax bracket? Not comforting. My back? A traitor. My give af? Unreliable. But this blanket? This granny-knitted, questionably-colored security shroud? She’s been there for it all…

Let me paint the picture for you: I had just turned 40—yes, forty—that glorious age where your knees make more noise than your bed frame at 20 and you have to Google “is this mole new or have I just never paid attention?” So naturally, I decided to launch myself into a hot, chaotic whirlwind of delusion called Miami. The plan? Ring in a new decade with fun in the sun, drinks, food, friends, views, tans, and possibly herpes (kidding…unless).

My friend Jeannette and her husband Chris jumped on the trip last minute, and from there we were off!

Close your eyes.

No, seriously. Do it.

Picture the version of yourself you’ve always dreamed about—the one that makes your chest flutter and your gut whisper yes, that’s me. Maybe they’re standing confidently in a mirror. Maybe they’re laughing, sun-kissed and glowing, on a balcony somewhere. Maybe they’re finally doing the damn thing: running the business, living in the dream house, loving fearlessly, dressing like they give zero shits about anyone else’s opinion.

Time to get vulnerable peeps!

My life isn’t all that sexy. That cute, taut, smooth booty I catch you looking at from time to time, well, it’s actually really shitty. Literally and figuratively.

You might not know this to look at me, but I have IBS. Irritable. Bowel. Syndrome; and it wrecks more than just my gut. It does everything to me but kill my appetite, which just keeps the bitch on a cycle of misery…

My grandma used to make Tuna Salad religiously, so this is one salad I’ve tossed more times than I can count. Though, I’ve made edits, bitch, because my grandma had nothing but time and boredom to inconvenience her; so this is for the sluts with things to do like paying your mf bills. I made it cheap, easy, and debatably tasty, but it’s gonna feed you for a few days so shut up and accept the blessing. Let’s go!

So I turned 40…

You know that scene in every disaster movie where some dumb bitch stumbles out of the rubble all dazed and covered in ash? That’s me. Crawling out of my thirties. Knees clicking like a haunted typewriter. Vision blurry. Holding a jar of pickled ginger because “it’s good for digestion.”

We’re here, and let’s talk about it…

There’s a moment.

Not a big, flashy one. Not the kind that smacks you in the face and screams, “LOOK AT ME, I’M PEACE!” No. It’s the kind that slips into the silence like a soft exhale. It’s a moment you have to notice—or it disappears.

I had one of those moments recently, standing on the balcony of our cruise ship, somewhere deep in the Alaskan wilderness. The world was still. Quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t just the absence of noise—but the presence of calm…

A cheesy, crunchy, slightly spicy culinary identity crisis brought to you by someone who definitely shouldn’t be left alone in the kitchen after 9pm.

What is it?

A beautiful, unholy marriage of instant ramen and quesadillas. Think dorm room meets Taco Tuesday with a sprinkle of questionable decisions and a dash of “fuck it.”

We got up at 5 a.m.. (That alone should’ve been a red flag. Nothing good happens at 5 a.m. unless you’re going to jail or catching a flight.) Clearly, Hana operates on Satan and sunrise.

I skipped coffee—because I’m smart—and got a hot chai latte instead. This, in retrospect, was like choosing to be executed by electric chair instead of firing squad. The outcome was the same, but more drawn out and with cinnamon undertones. That cup had it out for me from the beginning, but was all chipper about it like a true fake ass backhanded bitch like, “Hey girl, let’s detonate later’. I was so naive.

You all know I love to jog. Like, weirdly love it. It’s my therapy. My sweat-drenched confessional. My mental health power walk with Britney and Beyoncé, and gasping for air like I just smoked a pack of Marlboro Lights while sprinting from my problems.

Let me break it down…

Welcome to the first “Fork Yeah!” entry. The official launch of kitchen whips and quips from a wildly unqualified chef, yours truly. 💁

If there’s one fruit that consistently shows up and shows out in my kitchen, it’s the banana. Affordable. Adaptable. Thick where it counts. Whether it’s for breakfast, dessert, or a midnight shame snack—you name it, I’ve found a way to shove a banana into it.

So I thought: Why not make a little cookbook tribute to my #1 favorite fruit?

But of course… this wouldn’t be The J Michael Experience if we didn’t give it some flavor and filth, so here goes!

Let’s talk about her. You know who I mean. That extra-together, color-coded-spreadsheet-loving, emotionally-unavailable-yet-spiritually-clean type of bitch who stays silently judging you with her energy alone. Brenda is her name, and shelving labels is her game.

Let’s call it what it is:

Fear is a liar. A shapeshifter. A master manipulator.

It wears different outfits — anxiety, procrastination, overthinking, perfectionism. Sometimes it’s loud and panicky, other times it’s subtle, whispering in your ear like a so-called friend just trying to “keep you safe.” But underneath it all, fear has one job: to keep you small.