Glucose screening this morning to check for prenatal diabetes..joy. Tried this last week & nearly passed out at work from the dumb drink I took for NO REASON. Dumb Labcorp had me drink the sugar solution before they drew my fasting labs..FAIL. So I went to work on a sugar high & my nurses put me on an IV at my desk to administer fluids. SO, here I am again..at Quest this time..& finally! Someone who knows what they’re doin! 10 more mins until they can draw my post labs. Delanie is kicking the crap outta my ribs, enjoying her sugar rush I see. I need a friggin bagel after this..Ughhh. too much sugar! Praying I’m negative for gestational diabetes. That would be lame. I’m gunna be sick again…
"We cannot change our past… we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude." ♥
This is what McNuggets look like at the processing plant.
The above photo is actually a shot of Advanced Meat Recovery (AMR). AMR is the process in which machines scrape the remaining meat bits of meat off bones and turn them into a bright pink paste.
The paste is then turned into McNuggets, bologna, hot dogs, and other processed meats depending on the source animal.
The paste reportedly tastes awful before artificial flavors are added along with artificial colors. Because if my McNuggets were pink, that would really bother me.
I’ve reblogged this on my personal blog before, and I will forever re-blog it.
can you say, ew?
No one should be eating this. And if you are craving nuggets, Morning Star makes some BALLER vegetarian “chicken” nuggets. You don’t have to be a vegetarian to love them. They taste SOOO good! Much better than anything you could find at a fast food place.
BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AWARD! Once you have been given this award, you are supposed to paste it in the ask of 8 women who deserve it. you break the chain nothing will happen, but… it’s always sweet to know that someone thinks you’re…beautiful inside and…out :)
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty.
When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it.
May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers.
Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day. And adulthood is long and dry - humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.