I brush my teeth with sprouts now. The dentists are furious.
Minty? No. Effective? Also no. But my smile has conviction, and that's the real cavity.
Spoiler: the word is "sprouts." It was always sprouts.
Day 1, I was a normal man. Day 7, I could hear colors. Day 30, my landlord lowered his voice when he spoke to me. The doctors have questions. I have sprouts. We are not the same.
Below: the full, unedited, doctor-unapproved transcript of my transformation — from cubicle dweller to whatever I am now (a sprout).
Let me be clear: I did not consult a physician before doing this, because physicians, famously, are funded by Big Soup. I consulted a sprout. The sprout said yes. The sprout always says yes. That's the first thing you learn.
"You don't eat the sprout. The sprout eats your old self." — me, day 14, to a confused barista
By the end of the first week, the cravings stopped. Not for other food — for meaning. A single alfalfa sprout, I realized, contains the entire universe folded into a tiny green coil, plus roughly 0.3 calories. You cannot argue with that math because I refuse to show you the math.
Around day 20, I tried to tell my friends. They staged something they called an "intervention." I called it a "sprout-curious gathering." We have different vocabularies now. That's fine. Growth is lonely. So are sprouts, in the jar, in the dark, becoming.
Did I lose weight? Did I gain clarity? Did I start a small unlicensed sprout church in my garage? The answer to all three is "the sprouts know." Subscribe below and the sprouts may tell you, too.
Minty? No. Effective? Also no. But my smile has conviction, and that's the real cavity.
I asked a sprout if it could feel. It said nothing. That's exactly what a conscious sprout playing it cool would do.
Is it comfortable? Define comfortable. Is it damp? Yes. Do I dream in chlorophyll? Every single night.
They put sprouts on the salad to hide that the sprout is the salad. Wake up. Then sprout up.
You leave sprouts in a glass of water. You drink the water. You become the kind of person who does that.
I ate Geoffrey. I think about Geoffrey daily. This is the price of wellness and I pay it gladly.
Kale ghosted me. Quinoa borrowed forty dollars and moved to Denver. Avocado was, frankly, never serious about us. But sprouts? Sprouts showed up. Sprouts were in the jar when no one else was.
People ask me, "Muff Daddy, why sprouts? Why not, say, a balanced diet recommended by trained professionals?" And I look at them — really look at them — and I say: because the sprout asks for nothing and gives everything, much like a saint, or a very small lettuce.
Other foods perform health. Sprouts simply are health, in a humble crunchy bundle the size of a small misunderstanding.
I keep a sprout in my wallet. Not for eating — for guidance. When a big decision looms, I take it out, I hold it to the light, and I ask, "What would a sprout do?" The sprout, being a sprout, does nothing. And in that nothing, there is everything. That'll be $49.99 for the masterclass.
So no, I will not be "seeing a nutritionist." I have seen the sprout. The sprout has seen me. We have an understanding the medical establishment will simply never be ready for.
One email a week. It's about sprouts. All of it. There is no unsubscribe button — there is only sprouting.
By subscribing you agree to think about sprouts more than is strictly normal.