THIS lady is my newonline habit--I love her writing! She is known as "Farmer Girl," and she also has a FB page. Here is a sample of her work:
neopdrSost2ei5141u3hm0av,4fglegNit m2ligm2ocmi13a7b01350m1r ·
I need to come clean about something that may rattle this community, cause a slight tremor in the Cascadia Subduction Zone, and make at least three people whisper, “Is she okay?” (No. But also yes.)
I sometimes eat Cup of Noodles…raw.
Yes. Dry. Crunchy. Straight out of the package like a feral raccoon who just broke into someone’s garage and is now perched on top of the recycling bin making direct eye contact with the homeowner while chewing something aggressively.
And before anyone asks — no, this is not because I’m impatient. I’m a calf raiser in Western Washington. I willingly stand in rain that has no beginning or end. Patience is literally a personality trait here.
I eat them raw because they are like potato chips but somehow better — like if chips, pretzels, and unprocessed emotional trauma all were combined into a crunchy, salty snack. That crispy little noodle brick? It is the snack equivalent of chaotic good.
There is something deeply therapeutic about shaking the cup to disperse the seasoning, opening it, and crunching into it with the energy of a woodland creature that has fought three geese today and won.
Every bite is like:
crunch — “Not today, Brenda.”
crunch — “Western WA drizzle cannot and will not break me.”
crunch — “Yes, James, I do understand electrolytes.”
crunch — “Calves, please stop inventing illnesses at 2 a.m.”
crunch — “I am stronger than whatever that smell in the barn aisle was.”
It’s basically edible stress therapy. Emotional bubble wrap. The world’s crunchiest coping mechanism.
Do I understand this is not considered normal behavior by society?
Yes.
Will I stop?
Absolutely not.
At this point my personality is 40% calves, 40% rain, and 20% rehydration-optional noodles. I will die on this hill, clutching my snack like a noble, spicy raccoon warrior.
And when I go, my tombstone will simply read:
“She lived. She laughed. She had zero culinary skills."
