17 Unconventional Things I’m Thankful For

Every year, I do a “what I’m thankful for” Thanksgiving post. Because it seems like the right thing to do, no? I mean if ever there was a time of year to reflect on what you’re grateful for in life rather than what you wish you had or wish was different, Thanksgiving is def it. Sure, the entire concept of sitting down to basically write out a PROS/CONS list of my life and only post the PROS seems amateur, expected, and a bit silly. But, because it’s so sickeningly easy to get caught up in the minute day-to-day bullshit that leaves you with stress headaches, empty bottles of wine, and angry pimples, it’s sort of nice to pause for a minute to remember things that don’t make us want to hide in our bedrooms and only come out when we’re promised pizza, wine, and a 2015 version of Prince Charming (pays for meals and insists on orally pleasuring you until succession every time).

So, at this juncture in life, I am thankful for…

Sleep masks, for sure. Have you ever really given one a go? Not just as a joke or because you got it as a present and felt bad about what a terrible present it was so you felt obligated to try it at least once? Legit sleep masks are, well, legit. Sure, they may leave indents on your face (I think I need to loosen mine?), but I’ll be damned if they don’t block out that over zealous morning sun and keep you sleeping soundly until your alarm ruins everything. 

Shout stain remover. No, really. I’ve been using this shit since I started doing my own laundry, and it truly is a clothes-saver. And a life-saver. If my clothes were helplessly stained, I’d have less of a social life than I have now.

Spotify. Why has everything so far started with “S”? But, for real. Spotify. If you still don’t have Spotify, you’re not someone I’m interested in spending time around. For a mere $10 a month, you can listen to PRACTICALLY ANYTHING EXCEPT TAYLOR SWIFT OR ADELE BECAUSE ONE’S A GREEDY INSECT AND THE OTHER IS A CLASSY BROAD. 

The Southwest Rapid Rewards VISA. With the destinations Southwest now flies to, who wouldn’t own this credit card and charge their entire life to it in order to fly for free? WHO, I ASK YOU. WHO.

My pizza pajamas. Because, come on. 


Best friends. The types of best friends who live by the golden rule of liking every single one of your posts no matter if they actually like it or not. They know it’s code and they abide by it. Through thick and filters, amirite?

Being lucky enough to have a passion I can use to pay the rent. No, not writing my blog (some day). Just writing, in general. In all forms. In all shapes and sizes. I love it. I feel it. I can do it and it keeps me off the streets — EVERYBODY WINS!

Tinder. It’s given me invaluable stories for my future book. Stories that, although horrifying to actually live through, will hopefully make me money some day. Stories that made me cry once, could possibly make me cry again on a really bad day, but ultimately, will make me and anyone who hears them laugh. 

BBG. And Kayla Itsines who created BBG. I don’t care what none of y’all say, she gave a gift to a world of frustrated women when she created her workout regime and shared it with us all. I won’t get on a soapbox about it today, but it’s amazing. It works. I’m halfway through my second round. And I feel fitter and stronger every day. Think about it.


Text abbrevs. Like idk wtf you’re talking about rn. Tbh, it’s freaking me out. And imho, you need help. Or just ky.

The power to go to bed early AF and not care. It took me a while — I was a night owl for a very long time. But, within the past year, I had to train myself to get up for the gym in the mornings. This meant also training myself to get to bed earlier. With determination, a sleep mask, a white noise machine, sometimes rain sounds on Spotify, and a milligram of Ativan, I discovered a 10pm bed time IS possible!

My security mirror at work. For someone like me who scares so easily (and loudly), this was a necessary purchase and has stepped up my cubicle game in a big way. It’s like the mafia mirror — I see all. No one can whack me from behind.

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My sister. Corny, I know. But true. Who else can I love and hate within the same breath? With who else can I discuss the most disgusting of the disgusting things? Who else might get annoyed with outfit pictures I send on the daily but knows I’ll never stop, no matter how much she hates it? Who else?

Tupperware. How would I do life without it? It terrifies me to imagine.

Makeup. It’s all nice and good when guys are like “I don’t like a lot of makeup.” Because, like, same. But allow me to explain: that look you’ve grown to love so much — the fresh, smooth, subtly rosy-cheeked, au naturale look? — is achieved by the lightest touch of makeup. So the correct sentiment is “I like a girl with very minimal makeup on. Just enough that it enhances her already natural beauty.” 

Drake. Yeah, I said it. I’d be more thankful if he loved me, but there’s still time for all that.

Bridget Jones’s Diary. Because it never gets old. Never. Not even for a second. Some people consider “Elf” or “Love Actually” their designated Christmastime movies, but watching Bridge consider 136 pounds heavy, sleep with her boss, and choose Chaka Khan and vodka… well. #spiritanimal seems appropriate here.

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My readers who get me. There are a strong handful of you. Some of you have reached out to me, others are hiding, and that’s okay. You don’t have to say you love me for me to know — I know. And I appreciate you all, truly. Sometimes, I don’t know how I even have an audience. Other times, I get it. But mostly, I just wanted to thank you (whoever “you” may be) for giving me a reason to keep at this blog. I know I can come off like I’m into myself, but my argument for that is — wouldn’t you be? Just kidding. On the real, I’m all I have right now. I’m not dating. I’m very much in the reset and rediscover area of my life. I’m all about that self love — owning every cute outfit I don, taking myself on dates, focusing on ME and what is it that makes EMMA happy (i.e. not guys who ask me to buy them burgers or suggest I plan our second date and pay for him on said second date, too). I get down. Really down. In fact, today I’m down. Against my best efforts, I’ve let the onslaught of engagements and “Oh that’s her new boyfriend. It was the first guy she met on Bumble, ever, and that was that!” bring me way, way, way down. If this were another blog entry, I’d rant about it longer but I won’t. Not here, not today. I’ll just say, again —THANK YOU. Hearing from any of you in any capacity makes my day, so never hesitate to reach out or assume that we’d be best friends, because I have my own running list of “would be BFFs,” too! (Mindy, Broad City bitches, Lauren Lapkus and her entire improv group, Amy Schumer, obviously JLaw…)

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving; eat until you hate yourself, maybe try to work in some exercise where you can, go shopping, see some movies, and spend your time off around people you actually give a shit about. It makes the holidays that much better.



Adulting Is…

You’re familiar with the “Love Is” cartoon, no? It’s pretty cute. Strange in that it’s two creepy looking cartoons, but cute in that it returns us to innocence on the subject of love when we lose sight of the small moments meaning more than the big moments. 

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Anyway, this post isn’t cute like that. And it’s def. NOT about love. I just wanted to remind you all of the cartoon since I’m going to play off of it with an “Adulting Is…” series. Because adulting is hard and not one, present-day adult hasn’t stopped dead in their tracks while thinking, “Why the hell did I ask for this? Why was I trying so hard to grow up faster? For THIS? For this 9-5, bill-soaked, responsibility-ridden life? Why, GOD? WHY?”

Adulting is…

using your lunch break do go grocery shopping because you don’t want to do it at night after work because, after work, all you want to do is get home, change into your pajamas, eat dinner, and go to bed as early as societally acceptable (9pm is the golden hour, I think).


getting so excited over your grocery shop, you text your best friends all about it without realizing how incredibly sad and lame you sound. You’re on a high that only the perfectly executed grocery shop can create. This is screenshotted evidence of what one of my best friend’s had to endure yesterday after one of my better shops of all time:

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It’s really no wonder I have so few close friends. They’re saints for putting up with this.


giving into the whole standing desk fad because you realize it actually probably is a lot better for you and also, you sit on your ass every single day in your cube for (roughly) 8 hours and good God that’s depressing and fat.


receiving dick pics and realizing it may be the closest you get to seeing a live dick in a while, so you might as well embrace it. 


not caring how hot the new guy at the office is — you’ve learned your lesson and will not be fucking with that because no amount of sneaking around and keeping it on the low-low is worth it when it ends (and it will end, don’t be silly) and you are subjected to seeing that person every. single. day. for the rest of your life at this job of yours. Been there, done that when I was 24 and didn’t know any better, and it took me six fucking months of weeping quietly and sobbing aggressively at my desk to get over it. And I still wasn’t even over it. I just said I was. They knew. THEY ALL KNEW.


deeming Friday night as “hard” in the way of doing anything social, and using it to stay in, maybe order in food, maybe cook if you’re feeling extra domestic/old, and Netflix&Chill the F out of yourself and maybe one friend who loves you and gets you and wants in on your newly founded Friday Night Chill sessions. Fridays are for decompressing in the comfort of your own home, surrounded by your own farts, delicious food, and something delightful on TV like “Say Yes To The Dress” or all of Netflix.


learning the art of packing your own lunch. It’s growing a passion you’ve never known for tupperware and Ziploc baggies. It’s getting a chub over the lunch you’ve built, knowing you’ll not only be satisfied, but you’ll be saving money. It’s feeling a sense of invincibility as you stroll into the office toting your lululemon bag or what have you (the only reason I own 6 of them is because of headbands and underwear; the only items I can afford there) with a baller-level meal that would make your mama proud.

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making food in bulk to dine on throughout your work week. Realizing, hey — I can plan ahead. I don’t necessarily need to figure this shit out last minute or end up eating out every weeknight because I wasn’t prepared. I don’t need to make three separate trips to the grocery store (although why wouldn’t I want to? Grocery stores and drug stores are adult playgrounds as far as I’m concerned). I can think it out, write it out, and not buy so much unneeded produce just to feel like I’m fit and thin only to end up watching my bag of baby bell peppers and small collection of lettuce rot and die throughout the week.


being able to make the executive decision to do what you want sexually on a first date, while making peace with yourself that you very well may never hear from this guy again and you are 100% okay with that. That you will not take your life over it or slip into a minor depression and slut-shame yourself because sometimes a girl just NEEDS HERS, OK? And as long as you’re okay with it, GET DOWN, GIRL. GO AHEAD GET DOWN.



reading a book in bed at night to wind down in total silence and loving every second of it. No TV. No music. No nothing. Just you, your book, maybe your adorable Cavapoo, and silence. Maybe a white noise machine, too.


splitting the check down the middle with your girlfriend, even though she had one more drink than you or you didn’t touch the app she ordered (what are you, tho? A monster?). Only children sit there WITH A PEN (kill me now) and divvy up the check accordingly. We’re all adults here. We all make decent money. Just throw your card down and have your friend buy you a drink at the next bar to make up for it, asshole.


not having one social plan for an entire week, and loving every damn second of it. That’s called JOMO my friends, and once you’ve reached that level of truly looking forward to going straight home after work to do nothing but be alone for an entire work week, you’ve made it. You can rely on you now. You have successfully conquered what Carrie Bradshaw tried to preach to us about loving yourself first or whatever that diatribe was about. Good job. You’ve done it. You’re adulting and you’re good at it. Cheers!




Airing My Grievances With The Male Population

Guys, we need to talk. 

Well, I need to talk and I need you to listen.

More than that, I need you to either set me straight that the woes I’m about to lament are normal and to be expected OR that I am having a never-ending stream of terrible, very bad, no good luck.

I have three main gripes I need to express with the male breed. I’ve stayed semi-silent, only mysteriously alluding to some of the atrocities I’ve faced with dating, not just in the past few months since my breakup but way before I spent 10 months with my last boyfriend. He was a nice break from the everyday horrors of trying to wade through the steaming piles of shitty trash out there in the dating world, but he had his hang-ups, too.


So here are my three grievances I have to air publicly before I implode. I need answers. I need sympathy. I need to believe I just have terrible dating karma that will turn around some day.

Grievance 1: Do most guys truly believe that most girls orgasm from penetration ONLY? 

Where the fuck did this LIE begin and how we do make it end? Was it porn? Was it your parents explaining the logistics of sex to you at a very young age, unable to get into the nitty gritty of all the other crazy shit that must happen to achieve female orgasm because, well, that would’ve been super awkward? Was it the infinite number of girls you’ve slept with that faked it? The percentage of women who get their rocks off JUST from a penis going into their vagina is lower than the amount of people who don’t find Ryan Gosling or Blake Lively attractive (like LOW). Don’t get me wrong — I know some girls do. And good for them. In fact, GREAT for them. But also, fuck them because they’re making the rest of the us look bad who CAN’T do that. Or maybe I’m just continuously running into dudes who have a knack for making you feel abnormal or atypical if you don’t have movie-esque orgasms during the act of intercourse.

I can get there — do I get there often? No. Maybe a handful of times in my life. Is it my fault or the guy’s? Neither. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just my body and how it reacts to certain things. Does sex still feel incredible? Of course. I don’t enjoy it any less because there’s no big, explosive end result for me. In fact, it makes YOU getting there even better for me and exciting to witness. I get my end result from other stuff. In fact, from almost any other stuff. So I think it’s rotten and fucked up for any guy to question out loud or scoff out loud re: the fact that his dick can’t make you see Jesus. Oh, I’m so sorry — is it that you don’t wanna have to do work? Is that what it is? You’re all like “Ughhh, I can’t just thrust into you endlessly? That’s not gonna do it?” IT’S NOT ABNORMAL FOR A GIRL. IN FACT, IT’S MORE THE NORM. You know what’s fucking abnormal? When YOU can’t get off. THAT’S fucking weird as shit (This is a real thing. Adding to my terrible dating karma, I have encountered two men in my life who have had serious issues with “getting there.” One of them openly admitted he had only ever ejaculated from anything sexual twice in his entire life. The other took about 5 separate physical encounters with a LOT OF ACTIVITY INVOLVED for anything to happen. BUT I’M THE WEIRD ONE?).

In conclusion, get your heads our of your asses and get to work, you lazy fucks.

Grievance 2: When did guys stop being obsessed with going downtown on a girl?

So what you’re saying is I can blow you right off the bat if I wanted and for a solid 20 minutes, but you’re just not the oral-giving type? When did guys stop loving vaginas? Because, I’m sorry, being a truly sexual person who loves vagina like you claim you do means being willing and excited to put your face into it. My college boyfriend spoiled me, I guess. He did that the first night we ever kissed and it never once faltered or went away for three years. I’ve been with plenty of men who would do that for breakfast if it was a viable option, but have encountered an equal amount of men who either “just don’t do that,” “do it but only sparingly and when they really like someone,” or are just really terrible at it all together — WHICH, I would GLADLY take and mold into something amazing. I just sat here for a solid 2 minutes shaking my head. These guys act like it’s something we have to earn or just the most special sexual act that they’re reserving for their future wife. I just fucking can’t. Look, I get it. Oral is intimate. Some people take it more seriously than sex. Personally, I’ve never understood that — it doesn’t seem to flow with the natural progression of getting to know someone sexually. You do all the other stuff before you get to P in V. That’s how I was raised (gross sorry that joke wasn’t funny). But seriously. Please someone tell me it’s just the stream of guys I’ve been running into for the past however long and not a new movement amongst men in general. I’m about to just start sitting on faces and taking names, whether they like it or not. 

Grievance 3: Dating and dates and money and who pays for what and what the fuck is going on.

This I barely can, but I will for the sake of using my blog as a cathartic instrument. If I had a dollar for every time dollars became a point of contention with the men I’ve fraternized with, I would have a few hundred more dollars in my savings, which would be really nice just to know I have that cushion, ya know?

It’s hard for me to eloquently articulate my thoughts and feelings on this subject without coming off as an entitled bitch, but here’s the deal: courting = being paid for. That’s the bottom line. I know it’s 2015, I know feminism is rampant, I know Hillary is trying to christen the oval office chair with its first vajean, but if we’re newly “dating,” “hanging out,” or whatever the fuck you wanna call it, I want to feel treated. I want to feel like you’re honored I accepted a date with you; that you’re relieved I’m not just another nobody, boring girl you’re taking out. I want to feel like you view me as a classy lady who you want to treat to a real date. I have no problem picking things up or splitting in the future, but in the FUTURE. When we’ve been dating, we’re established, and I know you’re not manipulatively attempting to have me pay my way. That you’re not so casual about me, you just want to fuck and then ask me to buy you a burger or, when we go to “dinner” for the first time (dinner is in quotes since I’m alluding to 9pm on a Sunday night at a bar that happened to serve food) you don’t have the gall to say “You’re getting this one” when the check is dropped off. OH AM I? BECAUSE WHY? YOU’VE TAKEN ME ON TWO DRINK DATES? AND I OWE THIS TO YOU? WHO ARE THESE MEN.

Or, what about just the other night on a lovely sushi date with a seemingly normal, lovely guy who, when we got outside and I offered cash for the valet, responded with “No, I got this. You can take me to dinner next time.” I’ve never gone flaccid so fast. I just stood there, in shock. Is this really happening again? Am I a magnet for douchebags? Does my face scream “I WOULD LOVE FOR YOU TO KEEP TABS AND MAKE THIS UP TO YOU SOON!”? Literally, I just stood there and half-laughed. He wasn’t kidding since he followed up with “No? That’s a no, then?” 

Am I being too expectant? Do guys not happily pay anymore unless they’re sure y’all are “equals”? Did they all recently read a handbook about how girls don’t deserve old school courting and how to get them to pay their dues in order to get your attention? Am I not 2015 enough? Like I said, I will HAPPILY split/pay/whatever once I’m in an established relationship. I’ve done so in every single relationship in which I’ve partaken. But to ask me 2-3 dates in to cough it up or essentially pay you back… fuck off the hardest anyone’s ever fucked off. And thank you for ruining a great date by creating an air of this not being legitimate whatsoever and making any future “dates” awkward when it comes time to pay. Thank you SOOOO much for that.

I realize this is the most graphic, TMI, over-the-top, revealing post I’ve ever written. I also realize I have opened the gates to haters and trolls to say awful things to me or about me, but that’s the risk I’m willing to take. Otherwise, I honestly believe I would’ve imploded this week and gone rogue and no one would be able to find me until years later, when I was discovered under a bridge in Minneapolis, covered in filth with a shopping cart full of treasure trash, and muttering things like “‘wanna buy me a burger?’ ‘take me to dinner’ pusssssyyyyy PUSSSSSAAAAYYYYY.” So.



How BBG Worked For Me

If you’re at all clued into my social media accounts, you’ve probably figured out by this point that I have been doing an exercise program called the Bikini Body Guide for the last three months (worst name ever, but for obvious marketing reasons because what girl isn’t going to want to peep something with that name?). BBG was created by a fit as fuck Australian woman named Kayla Itsines, who is very young, very tan, has 42 ab muscles, and makes exercise look easy. So basically, she’s a stupid bitch, but not really at all because she created this revolutionary program that has made hundreds of thousands of girls fitter, happier, and baller AF. 


The guide is 12-weeks long; for those of you who are slow to math, that’s three committed months of this program. Ideally, each week consists of three predetermined circuit workouts created for you by Kayla, and 2-3 LISS (Low Intensity Steady State, AKA moderate cardio) sessions. So, essentially, you’re working out 5-6 times a week. In summary, this program does not fuck around.


Because this was the first-ever workout program I’ve attempted and subsequently finished, I wanted to write a post about my experience with it: the ups, the downs, the easy (LOL), the hard. I can’t tell you how many girls have reached out to me via Facebook, asking all about the guide and wondering out loud whether or not they should try it. Well, I’m here to tell you as a semi-fit curvier gal who had been doing just OK with her own workout regime but wanted to see bigger and better results:


And not only try it, but DO it. And finish it. And fucking own it. Because if I can, anyone can.

So, here is my story behind BBG and my major takeaways from it:

After gaining about 13 pounds over the course of a year and a half, I had decided to buckle down and get my shit together. I started working out consistently in December 2014, but by March or so, had very little to show for it. No real definition or toning had appeared, just an overall feeling of relief that I was at least moving my body in anaerobic and aerobic ways again and hoping it would all be worth something eventually. I grew frustrated. Really frustrated. NOTHING was happening. Sure, I had dropped a few initial pounds that had basically been waiting for me to dismiss them with a wave of my hand (the first few always come off easily), but nothing very visible had happened and my clothes were still too snug. I was straddling the line between two sizes, and knew if I ended up having to go up a size, I would never forgive myself. So one out of who knows how many nights of sitting on my couch, probably eating something not great for me and cursing the entire notion of getting fitter, I started texting a friend about my frustrations. She mentioned she herself had just started BBG and maybe I should try it, too? The program sounded familiar to me, and it was then I remembered a friend had actually sent me the guide back in November. I had a hazy memory of opening the email, downloading the guide, taking one look at it, and saying NOPE. 

So, that night, I pulled the guide up again and this time, I really looked at it. Then I sent it to my best friend for review who’s been working out since she was 13 (soccer). “This is some intense shit,” she acutely observed. “But you can do it.” “What if I can’t though, Kelley? What if I suck and get so discouraged or physically can’t make it through some exercises or give up halfway through?” “Look,” she likes to start sentences this way. “We’ll do it for 4 weeks. Ok? You can do 4 weeks. And at the end of the 4 weeks, we’ll assess. Ok?” “Ughhhh….” I bemoaned the thought of failing. “4 weeks! You in?” “Okay. 4 weeks.”

And thus began my love affair with BBG.

Now, 12 weeks later, here are my top takeaways:

Don’t start it unless you’re ready to commit. This guide was built-out a certain way so it works a certain way, and if you go about it casually or sporadically, you won’t see results. Only press “start” when you have figured how it will fit into your daily schedule, and know you are ready to kick shit up a notch. Of course, life happens, so if you start BBG with the best intentions and end up missing a few weeks in a row, go back to the start. Keeping starting from week 1, day 1 until you get into a consistent rhythm.

Don’t waste time buying the eating guide that goes with it unless you’re just the absolute worst at portion control and balance and literally cannot trust yourself for shit. Every girl who has reached out to me has asked whether or not I followed the meal guide, and the answer is no. To me, meal plans/guides aren’t realistic and the only way I will continue with a big change in my lifestyle is if it has realistic checkpoints. Personally, it has been a goal of mine for the last (almost) year to just learn how to eat better for myself; to learn what fills me up, how much I really need of something, how to not eat until I’m so full that I hate myself, and just to conquer overall balance in my daily meal choices. It’s taken some experimentation and has had a few pitfalls (overeating or under eating), but I finally found eating patterns that work best for me and are realistic. I eat as impressively as I can 80% of the time and leave the other 20% of the time wide-open for ice cream, beer, wine, pizza, burgers, fries, tacos, queso, vodka, whiskey, TCBY… you get the picture. This balance is the only way I can stay sane.

DON’T. SKIP. CARDIO. The guide pretty much lays out your weeks for you: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are the prearranged circuits. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday should involve independent cardio sessions that range anywhere from 30-45 minutes. A lot of girls skip the cardio. DON’T. SKIP. THE CARDIO. I fully believe I would not have had the same results had I been lax about doing cardio on my own. A long walk with Cece, 20 minutes on the treadmill and 20 minutes on the elliptical, or whatever sort of low intensity cardio you like best — it ALL COUNTS. And it ALL HELPS. Doing just the circuit training won’t get you as far as you want, trust me. Don’t be stupid. Don’t skip cardio.

Around week 6, you’ll get discouraged. I don’t know what it is about this week in particular, but it seemed to be a pattern amongst BBGers. A month and a half in, you expect to see a whole new you in the mirror. And when you inevitably don’t, something snaps. “This isn’t working,” “I should just stop,” “Fuck this stupid program,” “I’ll never see results,” and “I want all the pizza that’s ever been” are thoughts that go through your mind during week 6. But hear me loud and clear — DON’T GIVE UP! It’s just the week 6 hiccup. Get over that hump, and I promise you that in a few more weeks, you’ll laugh at yourself for being such a brat.

Focus more on your form and nailing every rep of every exercise rather than how many times you get through the the circuit in 7 minutes. Sure, getting through it twice is impressive (and basically impossible?), but doing half-ass moves to get there isn’t awesome. 

• Create a separate BBG account on Instagram. What? I know. It sounds weird and awkward, but if you’re really serious about completing the program and holding yourself accountable, creating a BBG-only profile really helps. There’s an entire BBG community out there just waiting to support you, cheer you on, and be some of the greatest Internet friends you’ve never met.

• Stop counting calories, like, yesterday. It took me a while to let the whole calorie-logging thing go. I was a slave to MyFitnessPal for a while there. But finally, I somehow decided to just stop because I honestly think it works against you. It drives you insane and can be very discouraging. More importantly, counting every calorie every day is unrealistic and, as mentioned before, I only abide by overall healthy lifestyle guidelines that are realistic and have every opportunity to last and help you out. Stopping with calorie counting seriously helped me a lot. I’m convinced it might have fueled more results toward the end of my BBG journey. For real. Just DON’T do it.

And now, since you so patiently read through all of that ranting (and I’m assuming you didn’t just scroll down until you found them), I present to you my results! 




So, there you have it! Now go. Do it. Get it. Be about it. And pray daily to Kayla, the god of all things fitness.