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.

Let me tell you something right now: June can SUCK IT.

It’s not even officially summer, that’s on JUNE 20th, and I already smell like somebody’s uncle at a crawfish boil who’s been sitting in a lawn chair since noon.

It’s no coincidence that The J Michael Experience officially launches today, the beginning of Pride month. Just like this project is a labor of love, my life has been a labor of evolution. Each step, each transition, each life occurrence, each realization, each and every moment that allowed me to become more confident in the person I am.

To not understand my story is to not understand me.

To not understand Pride is to not understand us.

Let’s dive in…

Listen, there is absolutely no age limit on deciding to do better. You’re not too old to start over. You’re not too behind to catch up. You’re not too broken to rebuild. You’re not too tired to rise up. And you are certainly not too far gone to return to yourself.

Like… do you even know how many chickens have to die so a single Chick-fil-A drive-thru line can operate for one hour?

First Alaskan stop: Ketchikan. A cute little port town that looks exactly how you’d imagine Alaska would dress up for the Instafake. We popped into some shops, and then made a beeline for chowder because, priorities. But first, a little history lesson: I learned that a female pimp is called a madame…

There’s this quote that’s been sitting with me for a bit after many of my colleagues attended a program called “Bold”, which primarily markets to the real estate profession, but you typically come out of there with some really important nuggets about life. About the second day in, “when you’re born you look like your parents, when you die you look like your choices” began making it’s rounds on social media…and even though I didn't attend the program, it didn’t keep the message from stewing in my mind.

Here’s where that took me…

From Monsoons to Maple Leaves. Oh Canada, you Glowy Bitch.

Let me set the stage. We were invited on this fabulous cruise to celebrate one of my all-time favorite co-worker’s husband’s 60th birthday. He’s adorable, she’s iconic, and the whole damn thing sounded like a Hallmark movie with a touch of tequila. But plot twist—they also introduced us to their friend Cindy, who joined the adventure, and listen… Cindy is that girl. She’s kind, she’s knowledgeable, she’s considerate without being a pushover, and she has the kind of chill energy that makes you want to pour a glass of wine and tell her your life story. Due to the sheer drama and extravagance of the itinerary, this story will be brought to you in two parts—Canada and Alaska. Buckle up, bitches.