Why does “detox” now mean buying powders from Instagram instead of sweating, fasting, and shitting?

Spinach Leaves dressed up as iron and virtue. Light vitamins. Some fiber. A little crunch when fresh. Oxalates block minerals. Lectins bite the gut. Boil or ferment and it hurts less, but still fights back. Sold in plastic bags, sprayed, waxed, branded “superfood.” Truth: bitter leaves dressed as health candy. If food needs a PR team, it isn’t food.

You paid for “detox.” They sold you Botox. Health theater with cucumber water on the side.

Your body speaks food, soil, sweat. You feed it plastics, dyes, and perfumes. Then wonder why the immune system stutters like a bad translator.

They call it “drinking water.” Let’s be honest—it’s medicated soup. Chlorine to kill, fluoride to sedate, estrogen residues to warp, heavy metals for garnish. Then they hand you a bill for it. Imagine serving this at dinner: “Here’s a glass of recycled pharma broth, straight from the city pipes.” The absurdity is clear. A kid can’t buy a beer but can drink tap water full of hormone disruptors every day. Pregnant women are warned off sushi, but not the municipal cocktail of chlorine and lead. Politicians toast with bottled spring water while you’re told your tap is “safe and tested.” Your body isn’t thirsty for tap. It’s thirsty for water that remembers rivers and stone, not pipelines and treatment plants. Water is not safe because a lab says so. Water is safe when it carries life.

Firelight calms your blood. Screens electrify it. One rhythm is ancestral. The other is sleep theft.

Why is “hormone therapy” called care when it turns living bodies into lifelong customers?

Salt endures. Table salt is theater.

Eggs Animal cells wrapped in a shell of life. Protein dense. Fat rich. Cholesterol strong. Nature’s perfect pack of fuel. Carried tribes through hunger, ritual, birth. Raw or cooked, always sacred, always kept. Factory eggs? Pale, weak, tasteless. Chickens in cages shitting on conveyor belts. Industry calls them “free range” while birds never touch grass. If you need a label to prove freedom, it isn’t.

They call it “saving” the tooth. What they mean is embalming it in your jaw. A coffin with a smile.

Your great-grandmother carried bone broth in her womb. You carry microplastics. Which bloodline sounds like it’s preparing for extinction?

The first thing most modern babies see is a glove, a mask, and a fluorescent ceiling. Birth is sold as a “medical miracle,” but the body didn’t forget how to deliver life. The hospital just replaced grandmothers with paperwork. A primal act became a liability event. The theater is absurd if you step back: beeping machines, tubes, epidurals, monitors—every inch wired, as if a mother is defective tech that needs a patch update. Then they take the baby away “for tests,” like a product rolling off the line. Safety, they say. Translation: protocol and billing. Women delivered life for thousands of years without contracts, gloves, or stainless steel shrines. Now a mother’s first roar is silenced under policy. The child’s first imprint is not earth, blood, or breast—it is plastic, latex, and control. Birth is not a medical procedure. It is life’s oldest proof of strength.

Fast food, fast shipping, fast death. Convenience is just the receipt for stolen vitality.

If phones are harmless, why do children raised on them look half-sedated and half-malnourished?

Bread or foam - the choice is obvious.