Story #78 Is A Poem Inspired By A 2-word Prompt "I'm From"

Story #75, which is a CPE essay about Children's games.

Game is a fundamental concept in the realm of childhood, designed to teach rules, demonstrate examples, and guide minors through their transition to adulthood. Games reflect the behavioral patterns of their age, thus the play adopted contributes to the impact parents have on their children.

The first text outlines the idea that children's games, be they in the past or present, while chosen freely, sometimes are severely criticized by parents. Unfortunate though it is, family members tend to breed further development of the problem buying juniors the newest exorbitant toys. That state of affairs might be the driving force of why children are not aware of ways to amuse themselves without gadgets or money in their pockets. However, the author fails to take into account that people had limited availability of playthings in the past, and therefore, it was natural for children to make their own amusements.

In the second passage, the author rightly highlights that not only children's play preferences are different in this day and age, but also the nature of games is the subject of constant progress. Social transformations, albeit sometimes disproportional, affect all areas of our lives, so the games children play are no more than a continuation of these alterations. One should consider them as a sign of evolution. This point notwithstanding, parents are in charge of guiding the juniors through a wide range of entertainment means, to enhance their experiences rather than assisting them in further sinking into boredom and, therefore, seeking joy and solace in new toys.

In conclusion, although one cannot deny the fact that children's games are constantly changing, the harmful nature of these changes is rather questionable.

Word count: 277

Story #39, CELTA 2022

I’ve been wanting to take the course for the past three years or so, but somehow I couldn’t answer to myself “to what end”? And then it just clicked. So here I am.

I didn't want to do a full-time 4-week offline CELTA. Since we live in a digital age where people Zoom this and that, you don't even need to leave your apartment. Maybe even your bed.

My CELTA is a 12-week online course in ITI Istanbul.

We have a multinational group with people from Turkey, Iran, Russia, Japan, and even Argentina!

The workload is pretty heavy, but all the tasks are quite doable, and if you manage to organize your time properly, there’s just the right amount of time for work, side projects and family errands.

All the tasks mentioned below are compulsory; however, only the first two are assessed.

What it consists of: 🦋4 written assignments (up to 1000 words); 🦋8 45-minute lessons; 🦋6 hrs of teacher practice observation (including your tutor); 🦋7 weekly sessions; 🦋30 units of coursework on the Cambridge platform; 📛nerves, sweat, tears unlimited.

My teaching practice is starting at the end of November and finishing somewhere around December, 30. (Alas! no teaching after the New Year’s Day). The last week is dedicated to wrap up all the loose ends.

This should be the first step for taking DELTA afterward… so we’ll see.

Story #21 "It all started with a calendar" 2/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

When Scully comes out of the bathroom, clad in her typical set of silk pajamas, her face bare of any make-up, Mulder is already in bed. He casts a coy smile in her direction, but his face is taut with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.

“I took a shower in the downstairs bathroom.”

He’s wearing a t-shirt and whatever he has down there is hidden under the blanket, but Scully prays Mulder's wearing his pajama pants. Just looking at him, she feels ready to fall apart at the seams. All of a sudden she is tongue-tied, unable to squeeze out past her lips a single syllable. She feels like a bride on her wedding night who's about to get cold feet but also as if it might be her only chance, which she’s not quite ready to blow. She’s terribly out of sync with her voice of reason, so in order to calm her nerves, she turns off the light, takes a few steps to the bed, and quickly sinks under the covers.

She can feel Mulder moving as far away from her as possible, trying to give her extra space, but it immediately becomes obvious that they can barely fit in that bed together. As Mulder still does his best to avoid touching his lovely partner, one of his knees accidentally bumps into the crease of her ass, and Scully’s whole body jerks so unexpectedly that she knocks him out of bed.

“Oh my god, Mulder. Are you OK?

“Jesus, Scully. You know, you could have told me if you changed your mind about me sleeping on the floor. No need to go ballistic.”

He looks up at her from his place on the floor, grimacing and rubbing a bump on his forehead. With those big puppy eyes, that pouty mouth and mussed hair, dressed only in a tatty white t-shirt and boxers he looks irresistibly cute, and Scully can’t fight the urge to reach out and lightly touch his cheek. The whole predicament is so ridiculously comical that the corners of her mouth start curving up slightly, and she quickly covers it with her hand but it’s just too much and in a second she bursts out laughing, glimpses of tears shine in her eyes. Contagious. Deep, loud, wake-everyone-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night laughter. Mulder starts laughing with her.

And just like that, the tension is gone.

“Here, get back to bed.” Scully makes room for him on the bed and throws open the covers.

Illuminated only by the dim moonlight coming through the window across the bed, she can see Mulder wiggling his brows playfully at her. With a wide grin still plastered on his face, he gets on his feet and slips under the covers. He nudges Scully with his shoulder and she dives under his arm, throwing one leg on his, her head resting on his shoulder. Like they always sleep this way. As if she belongs there.

When Scully first realized that she started having unpartnerly feelings for her partner, she designed a whole set of rules in the situations of extreme proximity to Mulder. It didn’t take much to make her see that she had trouble sticking to those rules lately. Mulder was her guilty pleasure. And she is coming to terms with the fact that any guilty pleasure if done in moderation is not something to feel guilty about at all. Mulder IS her guilty pleasure. The one she is going to indulge in tonight and get away with.

“I have a confession.” Scully nuzzles his neck with the tip of her nose and feels him inhale sharply. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

“That?” With a hand that isn’t caressing her back in long strokes, he waves between them. “Sleeping together? Hugging?”

“Sleeping, hugging, and all the rest,” Scully confirms quietly.

“The rest?”

“Yeah, the rest.” She lifts her head off his shoulder and eyes him lovingly. Their faces are so close that the wisps of air he lets out tickle her skin, and Scully draws a deep breath like she’s going to plunge into the water. When he first feels her soft lips touching his skin, right where the bruise is already marring his forehead, Mulder stops breathing altogether. She kissed him like that dozens of times before, but somehow this time it feels different. Intimate. Like a prelude to something else. Something more.

Mulder closes his eyes, relishing her tentative caresses. She kisses his cheek then, very close to his mouth but not quite there, and as she’s about to do the same on the other side, he slightly turns his face, and their mouths meet full-on. It's a chaste kiss, their lips are barely touching, almost hovering over each other’s. Her breath is shallow, and Mulder almost stops breathing at all. She wonders if Mulder can hear her heart pounding fast and loud, as blood rushes to her face causing her usually pale cheeks to blush. Her whole body grows hot and tingles with excitement.

When they finally part, their foreheads touching, for several long minutes they don’t move at all. The kiss is mind-blowing. Intoxicating. A promise made under the guise of night, the one Mulder has a full intention of delivering.

“Jesus, Mulder,” she says in wonder, just before his mouth lands full force on hers. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of her head. In return, she wraps her own hands around his neck, weaving her fingers through his silky strands. When they take a break to breathe, he doesn’t let go but holds her tightly, face buried in her hair. He can hear her ragged breathing, warm puffs of air on his neck.

Scully’s eyes flutter open when he loosens his grip on her, and she slides one hand down his arm to entwine their fingers.

“Wow,” is all he is capable of. His voice is husky, and his smile grows wider as Scully ducks her head. Mulder’s absolutely enamored with her apparent shyness. His logically-minded partner is all of a sudden rendered speechless. So simple, unpretentious, and amusing in her pure wonder.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and then lifts her chin and leans down to steal another kiss.

“What else is in that “the rest”, Scully?”

She snorts and once again hides her face in his t-shirt.

“We are not doing that in your mother’s place, on your tiny bed, in the house full of guests, Mulder.”

They both chuckle and he pulls her into a tight embrace, kissing her hair when Scully’s head returns on his shoulder.

“But the offer is on the table?”

“Mmm,” she hums in agreement. “You better pray there's no snow in the morning and the roads are clean, so we get back home fast and safely to try that “rest.”

“Far be it from me to tell you, Scully, how bad I’m at communing with deities.”

Scully shuts him up with another kiss.

“Oh, God.” Mulder breathes out.

“You learn quickly.”

“Can we do it again?”

“Absolutely.”

Story #76. Based on the prompt: 'Surprise!' They cried, leaping out from behind the door.

“Surprise!” They cried leaping out from behind the door, and the glass of water she was holding, slipped out of her grasp and shuttered.  She bolted down to clean the mess and peered sideways at her unsolicited guests shifting from one leg to another. One of them, Tom - she recalled vaguely - tiptoed around the shards and intercepted her hand, reaching for paper napkins in the bottom drawer of the desk. 

“I’ll do that, don’t worry.”

The words broke the spell, prompting others to hurtle towards the couple on the floor. Flowers were put into vases, cake was set on the desk, candles were lit, and presents were stored in the corner of the room. 

“Didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you.”  Someone offered and the woman huffed a laugh.

She took a moment to meander around the office, gauging mentally whether she’d be able to take all the wrapped-up boxes and bouquets to her car in one go and then backed up and plonked down on the chair. A high tower of a cake leveled her eyes. 

“Make a wish,” Tom encouraged.

I’d like this day to start over, she said in her head and blew the candles.

Story #53, In the Silence of the Night 2/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction. Read it on AO3

She has no doubts that Mulder knows how to touch her mind.

She suspects that he keeps under wraps a few tricks on how to touch her soul.

But how is it possible that he’s never touched her body before, yet he can play it like a fine musical instrument? With unerring precision, he recognizes all the right keys to touch and strings to pull. Her body, mind, and soul sing the most sonorous chords all at once. Only in his arms.

If he can make her vibrate all the way down to her toes with just one kiss, what's going to happen when they take it to the bedroom? Oh, boy.

Scully straddles his lap and in a matter of seconds, their clothes end up in heaps on the floor of her living room.

Fingertips, calloused and tender, map the soft curves and hard muscles; eyes, hazel, and baby-blue, trail over the cream and bronze canvases of skin; lips deliciously full, devour hungrily over each other.

In his hands, he holds a microcosm of the ocean of pleasure that comes to wash her in tides.

With tender fingers, he caresses the undersides of her breasts - thumbs sliding over the hard nipples - then moves them down to rest on that sweet spot where her waist goes to her hips, and eventually encircles her back. Their bodies touch head-to-toe and the sweet fragrance of her skin fills him to the brim with each inhale.

“God, you are so beautiful,” Mulder whispers, tightening his arms around her and kissing her soft, fruit-scented hair.

“Should we take it to the bedroom? You know, there’s a bed in this apartment.”

In reply, he dips his nose into her neck and nips gently on the sensitive skin beneath her ear, hands still roaming along the pale expanse of her back. As they settle on the luscious cheeks of her lace-covered bottom, he gives them a firm squeeze and lifts his head off her shoulder to look into her eyes.

“I want to take you to the ocean, Scully.”

Scully smiles, her eyes crinkling with amusement. That’s clearly not what she expected to hear.

“Ocean?”

“Yes. To spend a day on the beach. To see the milky skin of your arms and shoulders become crowded with peach-colored freckles, and your russet hair lighten in the sun.”

“You are such a romantic, Mulder.” She chuckles, rubbing his nose affectionately in an Eskimo kiss.

“Should we call Skinner and tell him we are going on holiday together?”

“Mulder, at this point you can ask me to call Skinner and tell him I believe in aliens, and I’ll blithely agree. You have me that high on dopamine.”

One of her hands drifts down his sternum and brushes an impressive bulge through the rough denim of his pants. Mulder whimpers.

“Can we please not bring Skinner into our bed?” Scully murmurs into his ear, and the tone of her voice alone makes him squeal.

“Deal.  And we are on the sofa, not in bed.”

“Oh, I stand corrected. Can we please go to bed and not talk about Skinner?”

Mulder slides his hands up her back, over her shoulder blades and neck, until they reach her face and cup her cheeks. His stare suddenly turns serious.

“I know I’m at the risk of sounding a wee bit cynical here, but I don’t wanna be just your easy lay, Scully. This celebration of ours… is it just a one-time thing, or do you think you can… we can… feelings might be involved here?”

There’s a pause of a length of a heartbeat that feels like it lasts hours. Time stretches. That's Mulder’s cue to lay out his cards and just go along with what’s coming next.

“Because I love you, Scully.”

He would expect her to frown. To jump off his lap and put on her clothes back. To ask him to leave and forget everything that’s happened tonight.

He hopes for a kiss instead. 

He’s too afraid to believe she could say it back. Yet, she wouldn’t be his Scully if she didn’t keep him guessing.

“Mulder, I think, we both can agree, by and large, that feelings have been involved here from the very beginning.” At that, she frames his face in return, their foreheads touching.

“There’s some pretty hard evidence here.” She looks down briefly to illustrate the point, and Mulder lets out a nervous chuckle as he follows her gaze.

“That’s quite an astute observation.” He manages to say before her lips land on his in the most sensual kiss he’s ever experienced.

“I see you, Mulder. Always.” She says tethering him with her touch and her words.

“You won’t run for the hills in the morning?”

“I won’t run for the hills in the morning.”

“OK. That quelled my fears a little bit.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“I’m totally on board with this course of action, Scully, but maybe we should dial it down a bit.” She knits her brows, clearly confused.

“I mean, you are still recovering and…” The rest of the sentence dies, as she chooses that moment to grind against him, and Mulder loses any coherent train of thought.

“You know that you can’t really leave me hanging here, Mulder. Bear in mind the potential repercussions.”

“Oh, Scully, you know how to tug at my heartstrings.”

“I’m kind of hoping to tug at something else here.”

There's some more kissing and smiling. The night is young and promising.

Much much later, in the darkness of her bedroom, they lie under the covers, their bodies satiated and limbs intertwined, and Mulder, still slightly lightheaded, asks:

“Scully, how much would you give me on a scale of ten?”

Somewhere around his armpit, she sighs tiredly, mumbling half-sleepily: “You serious?”

Her eyes are still closed and he nods quite vigorously just to let her know how damn serious he is.

“Well, I think it’s fair to say… In aggregate, I’d score you six points, Mulder.”

“Six? You kidding?”

“You can’t deny a woman four years of sex and emerge unscathed. You’ll have to make it up to me.”

“Oh, I will, Scully. Believe me, I will. Do you think we can start right now?

“Right after I get my beauty sleep. Good night, Mulder.”

“G’night, Scully. Love you.”

She doesn’t say anything in turn, and Mulder thinks that she has fallen asleep and tightens his arms around her. It's more than enough for now, he's happy as he is. The night is silent around them and he closes his eyes, ready for the sleep to claim him.

“I love you too,” breaks through the haze of his dream right before he falls asleep with a content smile on his lips. 

Story #79 "Mapping My Childhood"

That was a creative writing exercise from my tutor, and it's a mix of fiction and real-life events.

There was a heavy wooden bookcase in the living room of our old two-bedroom, creaky dusty shelves storing all kinds of books - detective stories, thrillers, romances that would make the most jagged reader blush. I rummaged through it from top to bottom and stopped my gaze on “Hatter’s Castle” by Archibald Cronin, a hefty volume of blue color - the book my younger self, fascinated with British and American literature – devoured whole in one week. Took me another week to digest it, before embarking on Dreiser’s “American Tragedy”.  We’ll get back to that.

Kesha, our green and yellow budgie, was tweeting in his cage as I stood there hypnotizing the book, trying to decide if it was worth a read. As I made up my mind to give it a shot, I sauntered over to the kitchen to boil some water for tea. Benny, our beautiful white mongrel, looked at me with her wet brown eyes – always seemingly sad – and I paused by the door of the kitchen with my manuscript.

Later.

We could look through Hatter’s castle later. Tea could wait too. It was time to walk.

“Hey, let’s go out for a while.”

She didn’t hesitate and jumped on me, pawing my knees excitedly.  I crouched down to be level with her lovely fluffy face and pulled her increments closer. Maybe somewhere in the back of my head, I had already known it would be one of our last times together. As I had known that one sunny day in June, I would forget to pull down the bar of Kesha’s cage while filling his bowl with fresh food, and he would fly away.

We tended to keep the balcony doors open in summer, but I still believed the chances he’d find his way out would be close to nil. Well, fucking stupid of me. But what would you expect from a fourteen-year-old – a clusterfuck of uncertainty and confusion? 

Fourth floor. Eighty-eight steps up and down. Every day for the past six years, and then the next ten. Inside it smelled like dump plaster and cigarette smoke. I used to know all my neighbors by name, the types of plants they had (they asked us to water them when on holiday), and the loudness of their spouses’ voices once a row was in full swing.

Every four weeks it was our turn to sweep the floors of the lobby and wash two flights of stairs. Twenty-two steps. Up and down. I wish we had a rug there, so I could sweep under it all the dirt and humiliation I felt every time I got spotted by a random passerby.

Checking the postbox was the thing I loved best. There were letters and postcards I could read. When I was in high school, newspapers joined them. Later, when I entered the college, catalogs and brochures were added to the pile of the mess our postbox had become.

“What you got there?” The boy from the top floor – the fifth – asked me as he stepped across the narrow two-by-two lobby to check the box of his own.

“Yves Rocher catalog,” I mumbled and he pivoted on his heels swiftly.

“What?”

“Yves Rocher catalog,” I repeated louder and then felt compelled to clarify. “You can buy a lipstick there or a mascara.”

The boy smirked and swept my body down with his eyes, grinning wickedly.

“You think it’ll help?”

At his words, my face started burning. I kept staring at him with eyes wide open, acutely aware that if I closed them for a second, the tears that had already filled the back of my throat would spill over my lashes. I swallowed a sob ready to escape any moment and brushed past the guy, bumping his shoulder painfully with my backpack.

“Fuck you.”

Story #20. "It all started with a calendar" 1/2

This is The X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

This is not how she imagined getting into his bed. Not even close.

It all started with a phone call. No, scratch that. It all started with a calendar.

In the duo, Mulder, for all his photographic memory, is prone to being blissfully ignorant when it comes to dates. Her own birthday, not forgotten but rather celebrated in dog years, as he fairly dubbed it, perfectly illustrates an untold number of all the dates Mulder is conveniently forgetful of. Scully, on the other hand, always pays attention.

So she was the one to point at the calendar and circle Teena Mulder’s birthday in red ink. And Mulder was the one to make a face as if he bit on the lemon at her not-so-subtle inquiry if he was going to pay a visit to Greenwich.

He brushed her off, literally hiding behind a random folder and figuratively hiding behind the seemingly heavy workload, excusing himself out of that conversation. He explained later that he’d give his mother a call and FedEx her something nice. Something bright and shiny. Or something practical and utilitarian. Or something useless but obscenely expensive nonetheless. He didn’t really care. He was sure that his mother didn’t care much either. Missis Mulder and her son still happened to be at odds, and it was apparent to his partner that a nicely wrapped box with a ribbon, even with a “Love you, mom” card attached wouldn’t undo the damage. And Scully’s determination when it came to family bonds knew no bounds.

So she kept asking. And Mulder kept dodging her questions. Scully kept reminding. Mulder kept finding excuses. Right up to the moment when he found one hell of a legitimate reason to skip his mother’s birthday party (there was supposed to be a party after all, right?). A case of a teenager abducted landed on his desk, and Mulder leaped at the chance to shift his focus to anything that wouldn’t involve him in figuring out what to do with their mother-son convoluted relationship.

It was the divine intervention though that they ended up somehow in Connecticut around that fateful unfortunate birthday date to investigate an aforementioned case, and Mulder agreed to swing by Teena Mulder’s house if things went well. Not like he really wanted it, but more to indulge Scully. As luck would have it, the agents managed to solve the case in two days, which turned out to be a typical runaway, where an alien was the victim’s boyfriend, and the victim herself was abducted of her own volition.

Surrendering to the promise made earlier, Mulder and Scully drove to Teena’s place and arrived at the house in the middle of a nice family-like gathering, Missis Mulder surrounded by her peers. Good food, rich wine, lots of jokes, and laughter. Despite Scully’s concerns, Mulder felt at ease and seemed to enjoy himself.

The snowstorm came as a surprise. It was problematic to leave Greenwich then, not least because everything froze. They’d have to dig their car out, with one of them shoveling the roads clear in front of the vehicle all the way out of the state, and Scully definitely wasn’t going to let him drive in the midst of the blinding whiteness, let alone fly. Not even in the first class. Who are you kidding? She sighed heavily. Cattle-class flying is more like it.

“Well, now we have a legitimate reason to laze about.” She told Mulder when it became clear they weren’t going to leave any time soon. “I’m not sure about you, Mulder, but my circadian rhythms are terribly shifted out of whack, so I’m going to crash here,” Scully said with an air of finality. “And maybe even have a lie in. We’re not due anywhere until the storm passes. You shouldn’t skimp on your sleep either.”

The problem was that no one in Teena Mulder’s house was due anywhere. They all were stuck for the time being and there were only so many beds available.

This is how Scully finds herself standing at the door of Fox Mulder’s old room in his mother’s house in Greenwich, the one they resided in after his parents divorced, with her partner leaning against the door jamb next to her. The room is small but cozy, so neat actually that it’s the furthest from what Fox Mulder’s own place looks like these days. There’s not much furniture in there, a desk with some drawers, a couple of bookshelves, a wardrobe and a bed. The bed. The bed they’re supposed to sleep in tonight.

“Ah, Scully, you finally get to see my room,” fueled by a few glasses of Cabernet, Mulder gives her his best smile and unglues himself from his spot near the door only to hop into the bed and pat the covers in invitation.

It will be fine, Scully tries to convince herself. We go to bed, we sleep, we wake up, and head back to DC. She doesn’t want to contemplate how small and narrow the bed is and how awkwardly aroused she is at the thought of spending a night in Mulder’s arms. Hey, stop, where did it come from? It’s just sleeping. Nothing more than sleeping. That’s it. More fibs, Dana. Feed yourself with white lies.

“Could be worse, I guess. At least we don’t have to spend the night in a car.”

She has no choice but to grin and bear it. It’s not like they’ve never shared a bed before, let alone too small of a bed, but here, in Mulder’s childhood bedroom, she suddenly feels totally knocked out of the rut. It doesn’t bode well with the fact that she has it really bad for him but has no idea if the feeling is mutual. Mulder manages to get under her skin even staying in another room with a closed door between them, but she’s not so sure she can keep her walls up and her heart shut with him literally breathing down her neck.

“How are you even going to sleep without TV?” Scully asks randomly just to distract herself.

“You are my favorite box set to doze off to, Scully.” He flirts with her shamelessly and she feels how her cheeks start burning and blush creeps down her neck.

Keep your chin up, girl. But if she can’t tell him in all candor about her feelings, she at least can be brutally honest with herself. She isn’t just tired of holding back. She is tired of making the decision of holding back. Decision fatigue, they call it. Each tiny fraction of his body to hers makes her resolve waver. She can already feel how in the darkness of the night, with his body hot and impossibly close to hers, the arguments previously solid and credible become mired in uncertainty.

Mulder, a perceptive one in their partnership, seems to feel her distress and offers quietly: “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scully immediately jumps at his rather weak attempt to protest, her voice of reason drowning out in a cacophony of thoughts and blood rushing down to her groin.

“If you sleep on the floor, you’ll feel even more groggy than before you nodded off. Come on, we are adults, we can make it work.”

“Can we…?” He asks with his voice barely audible, and when Scully lifts her eyes she sees that he’s not smiling anymore. Is it possible that he is trying to pull off that con scheme with sleeping on the floor not to save her virtue but because he actually feels something to her, something that she dares hope is as remotely affectionate as what she feels to him and doesn't want her to be uncomfortable? That's just too much for her hazy alcohol-filled brain to process right now.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Scully grabs her overnight bag and in a matter of seconds hides behind the bathroom door.

When Mulder hears the shower running, he growls in frustration and slumps back against the pillows, not even bothering to undress.

Story #50 is the X-Files fanfiction story.

Read it on AO3

Story #66 "You are what you eat"

A cliche that sounds like a broken record. Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but yes, you are. 

I’ll have to go back here to explain my point. In 2014 I was diagnosed with Cholinergic Urticaria (CU). CU is a reaction of your skin to an increase in your body temperature, resulting in tiny hives. They are itchy, swollen, and they cover you from head to toe, lasting from thirty minutes to two hours. I typically got them when I exercised, was extremely stressed or while taking a hot shower.

There’s no documented cure from CU. You just have to learn how to live with it. And I did.

In February 2023, after another regular run on a treadmill, I noticed that my skin was totally fine. No red itchy bumps closing together, nothing. For the first time in almost a decade, my skin was clean. To say I was surprised would be an understatement out of proportion. I thought that NOT having my body FAILED me, was a FAILURE in itself.

Over the following days I tested it with vigorous workouts, hot baths and sauna visits. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Now, four months later, I finally believe it. 

Do I know why it’s gone? I don’t. Do I believe that my immune system rebooted and my diet was a big part of it? Yes, I do. 

It dates back to my adolescent years when I started modeling. First, it was about trying to follow the elusive 90-60-90 standard, then about fighting acne off my skin and gastritis off my stomach. Today, I allow myself to have cheat meals and late-night snacks here and there, but what you MOSTLY won’t find in my diet is

🦋gluten 

🦋sugar

🦋red meat 

🦋dairy 

🦋tea 

Over the years things like checking the labels in a supermarket and having veggies and fruit in abundance at home have become my second nature. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, I’m totally obsessed with what’s on my plate.

I’m a great believer in the theory that our body is capable of curing itself once you create the conditions for that. So, if there’s something to cure and you’re considering where to start, start with what’s on your plate. As simple as that. Your problems might not disappear overnight, but, little by little, they’re bound to get better.

Story #72, which is a 'Truly like lightning' review.

“The X-files” were my Bible throughout the 90s to 2000s. I fell in love with the character of Fox Mulder long before I fell in love for the first time for real. I didn’t think Duchovny could get any better than that until he started writing and I started reading what he had written. 

“Truly Like Lightning” is not David Duchovny’s first book, but it’s his best so far - it will strike you to the very core and leave you aching, with questions whirling like a snowstorm in the head. 

Set in the desert of Joshua Tree, the story centers around the former Hollywood stuntman Bronson Powers, now a converted Mormon living unplugged in a polygamous marriage. They raise their ten kids away from the evils of society until one day a young ambitious employee of a corrupt real estate company targets their land. Cultures clash. Faith is tested. Choices are made.

The book will hook you and won’t let you put it down… if you manage to push through the first fifty pages. Seriously, it took me two weeks to read that part, where Duchovny mostly explained the background of his characters, and only two days to finish the 445-page manuscript, when the story finally turned into an action movie-like narrative.  

All things considered, it’s worth every minute of reading. What made a successful man abandon all the perks of Hollywood and choose to live the life of an isolated nomad? What happens to Powers’ family once they are forced off their land and into the temptations of the world they left behind? What’s with the children who have never had a say in any of that? 

Read the book. And be prepared to be struck.