Topic: becky has abandoned Mordor
Anonymous A started this discussion 8 years ago #72,193
He is no longer in her hopes and dreamsq. joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 13 hours later[^] [v] #865,272
did she use to serve the eye of sauron?
Anonymous C joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 1 minute later, 13 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,273
During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
"No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
(Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
"That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
"No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
(Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
"That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
Big Daddy Derek !Uvm54ORbmo joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 10 minutes later, 13 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,275
@previous (C)
> During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
>
> "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
>
> Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
>
> My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
>
> In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
>
> Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
>
> Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
>
> I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
>
> (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
>
> In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
>
> Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
>
> Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
>
> Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
>
> When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
>
> "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
tl;dr
> During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
>
> "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
>
> Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
>
> My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
>
> In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
>
> Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
>
> Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
>
> I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
>
> (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
>
> In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
>
> Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
>
> Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
>
> Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
>
> When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
>
> "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
tl;dr
Anonymous C replied with this 8 years ago, 37 seconds later, 13 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,276
@previous (Big Daddy Derek !Uvm54ORbmo)
> > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> >
> > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> >
> > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> >
> > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> >
> > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> >
> > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> >
> > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> >
> > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> >
> > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> >
> > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> >
> > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> >
> > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> >
> > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> >
> > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> >
> > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
>
> tl;dr
tl;dr
> > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> >
> > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> >
> > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> >
> > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> >
> > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> >
> > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> >
> > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> >
> > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> >
> > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> >
> > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> >
> > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> >
> > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> >
> > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> >
> > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> >
> > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
>
> tl;dr
tl;dr
Big Daddy Derek !Uvm54ORbmo replied with this 8 years ago, 36 minutes later, 14 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,280
@previous (C)
> > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > >
> > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > >
> > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > >
> > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > >
> > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > >
> > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > >
> > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > >
> > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > >
> > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > >
> > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > >
> > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > >
> > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > >
> > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > >
> > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > >
> > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl;dr
tl;dr
> > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > >
> > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > >
> > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > >
> > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > >
> > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > >
> > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > >
> > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > >
> > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > >
> > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > >
> > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > >
> > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > >
> > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > >
> > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > >
> > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > >
> > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl;dr
tl;dr
Anonymous E joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 2 hours later, 16 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,294
@previous (Big Daddy Derek !Uvm54ORbmo)
> > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > >
> > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > >
> > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > >
> > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > >
> > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > >
> > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > >
> > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > >
> > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > >
> > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > >
> > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > >
> > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > >
> > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > >
> > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > >
> > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > >
> > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl;dr
tl:dr
> > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > >
> > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > >
> > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > >
> > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > >
> > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > >
> > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > >
> > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > >
> > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > >
> > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > >
> > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > >
> > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > >
> > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > >
> > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > >
> > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > >
> > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl;dr
tl:dr
Big Daddy Derek !Uvm54ORbmo replied with this 8 years ago, 22 minutes later, 17 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,312
@previous (E)
> > > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > > >
> > > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > > >
> > > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > > >
> > > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > > >
> > > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > > >
> > > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > > >
> > > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > > >
> > > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > > >
> > > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > > >
> > > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > > >
> > > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > > >
> > > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > > >
> > > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > > >
> > > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > > >
> > > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > > >
> > > > tl;dr
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl:dr
tl;dr
> > > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > > >
> > > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > > >
> > > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > > >
> > > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > > >
> > > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > > >
> > > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > > >
> > > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > > >
> > > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > > >
> > > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > > >
> > > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > > >
> > > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > > >
> > > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > > >
> > > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > > >
> > > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > > >
> > > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > > >
> > > > tl;dr
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl:dr
tl;dr
beckyderp !TNyDikii4A joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 22 seconds later, 17 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,313
@865,294 (E)
> > > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > > >
> > > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > > >
> > > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > > >
> > > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > > >
> > > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > > >
> > > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > > >
> > > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > > >
> > > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > > >
> > > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > > >
> > > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > > >
> > > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > > >
> > > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > > >
> > > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > > >
> > > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > > >
> > > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > > >
> > > > tl;dr
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl:dr
tl;dr
> > > > > During a routine adjustment with my chiropractor, I casually mention that I'm planning a detox with Purium, the 10-day "transformation cleanse" that I stretched to a giddy 17 days last spring. (Perhaps higher than I've ever been, I wrote a series of articles detailing my experience in the April 28 to May 26, 2016, editions of "Food Matters.") I have some shake mix leftover, and my body is begging for a break from the sourdough baking experiments that have defined my offseason meals. I want to know if she's still selling Purium, since I've convinced a friend to try it with me.
> > > > >
> > > > > "No, I've found something even better!" she replies.
> > > > >
> > > > > Poof! In an instant, any pride I feel about my Purium plan evaporates. And the competitive voice in my head wonders why I haven't heard about this great new cleanse yet. I begin to wonder if I'm missing out. Just like juicing, FOMO thrives in Aspen.
> > > > >
> > > > > My friend ends up sidestepping official sales reps (and forgoing the $50 first-timer rebate) and purchases Purium via Amazon Prime. She's heading to Cabo and determined to do so bikini-ready. Time is tight — she's in a race with herself. It works.
> > > > >
> > > > > In typical Aspen Extreme fashion, we discuss her experience following an epic Memorial Day weekend shred sesh while pigging out on cheesesteak eggrolls and "totchos" smothered with cheez whiz at Zane's Tavern. Our health-obsessed dude friend is sitting with us, pounding beer and scowling at our choices. It should be noted that I ordered the fried food for the table — cleanse starts tomorrow! — and my girl commanded a salad for good measure. Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, natch.
> > > > >
> > > > > Conversation turns to crazy cleanse anecdotes. Top topic: activated charcoal. I've noticed the stuff has begun to infiltrate juices here in Aspen, having already blown up the Internet earlier this year. A toxin magnet, activated charcoal helps prevent poison from being absorbed by the stomach. While used in hospital emergency rooms to detox patients who've overdosed, it's also sold in capsule form; I purchased a bottle about a year ago to use in homemade facial masks. Directions indicate that one mustn't eat or drink for three to four hours before or after ingesting it. While I might sip on lemonade turned slate-gray with activated charcoal, the idea of swallowing the pills skeeves me out. I can't bring myself to go there. Yet.
> > > > >
> > > > > Next our buddy shares a story about a fit-fanatic friend who submits to water fasts periodically. "Dave did it a week," he said. "Just water."
> > > > >
> > > > > I'm unable to hide my skepticism. "A whole week without anything but water?" I stab at the mass of crispy potatoes smothered in molten sauce. "How is that safe?"
> > > > >
> > > > > (Short answer: it's not, probably.) "He says it clears you out," our friend continues, shrugging. Still, I silently wonder if I might be able to summon the discipline required to accomplish such a feat. Purium is one thing — and restarting the program while the new CycleBar Aspen is offering its grand-opening week of free community classes presents a unique challenge, since the company advises against heavy-duty exercise on the plan. I decide not. Subsisting on water only for a whole week? Scary.
> > > > >
> > > > > In a place where one can kick her own ass to climb to the top of the screen at CycleBar — which emails your "stats," such as distance ridden, calories burned, and rank among classmates following the workout — then feel defeat upon stepping outside into rain, afternoon hiking plans dashed, it often seems as if everyone is subtly trying to outdo each other. Not to mention oneself.
> > > > >
> > > > > Ironically, this becomes crystal clear upon cleaning out my kitchen. I've accumulated a number of gadgets and appliances that take up too much space in relation to the amount of time that I spend using them. So, after years of allowing it to sit, neglected, in a cabinet, I decide to sell my still-shiny, four-year-old Breville Juice Fountain Plus extractor. Blender smoothies are more my jam nowadays (fiber, yo).
> > > > >
> > > > > Perhaps I price the juicer a tad too conservatively when I post the ad on Roaring Fork Swap and five other Facebook groups one morning, because I receive my first comment within seconds. I secure a buyer mere minutes later: a friend who texts me directly, urgently. "Amanda! I'll totally take your juicer!"
> > > > >
> > > > > Since the first girl isn't answering my private message, even though I respond immediately to her comment indicating that I sent a PM (typical!), later that day I agree to sell it to my gal pal.
> > > > >
> > > > > When the stranger finally figures it out — more than 25 hours later — and I tell her it's already been snapped up, I can't mistake her effort to trump me in the end.
> > > > >
> > > > > "That's OK, I ended up finding another one," she wrote. "It all works out. Have a great day."
> > > >
> > > > tl;dr
> > >
> > > tl;dr
> >
> > tl;dr
>
> tl:dr
tl;dr
Anonymous G joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 14 minutes later, 17 hours after the original post[^] [v] #865,316
what if becky was your chiropractor?
Anonymous H joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 8 hours later, 1 day after the original post[^] [v] #865,375
Anonymous I joined in and replied with this 8 years ago, 11 hours later, 1 day after the original post[^] [v] #865,505
We shall remain winners, for the haters, the pain lingers
Don't play with us, we head huntin', your game switches
The sour, the sweet, devour your fleet, we sinners
By all means, victorious, the world witness
I'm more vicious, for ya'll seven course delicious
Silver spoons, we pillage crews, cause convictors
The most wanted, my soul haunted, roads to riches
Leave you broke on it, we spoke on it, cold as winters
So hibernatin', sweet dreams, we violent apes
With higher stakes, nightmare niggas that rhyme on tapes
Inject the drugs, we messengers, from violent days
Soon to come, just move from us, find your way
In a world of hurt, backstabbers and murderers
Niggas roll the bud, and burn a Dutch, I turn it up
Just another notch, we smother spots across the globes
On Fordham Roads in Metropolis, Boston foes
These men don't cry (why) we just get even (even)
Stop them from eatin', kill 'em all softly
Of course we be (creepin') of course we be (reachin')
Who, me? M-E-T, H, the O, the D, can't be done
Like try'nna find a penny in the sea
Nigga run, for cover son, go and get them guns
Ya'll ain't from here, don't try to come around here gettin' one
You get done here, just for askin'
Stick the key in the lock to Pandora's Box
Lungs collapsin', gaspin' for breaths
Lord Have Mercy, it hurts me, to know
Thirst is everything and I'm still thirsty
Ask myself, who the boss label try'nna work me
Next time, don't forget my dick when you jerk me
Try'nna stop my conquest, I'm like a one legged man
In an ass kicking contest, hah
Walk a mile in my shoe, whoop an ass or two
Cop a nasty attitude, still I ain't mad at you
Hurry up and take your time, buck-ed naked nine
Take your shores high, and make it mines, word
Until we even, or one of us is barely breathin'
Shaolin, we in the house, and we ain't leavin'
The Loooooooooooooord Have Mercy, muthafucka
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (hah)
Johnny Blaze (hah!) Al Simmons (hah!)
Wu-Tang (hah!) *Flipmode* (what?)
Word is bond, Shaolin, Brooklyn
What it look like, what it be like
What it sound like, what it feel like, muthafucka (you know?)
All day, Brooklyn to Staten Island, connected
Put it all together, it's basic) Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
Don't play with us, we head huntin', your game switches
The sour, the sweet, devour your fleet, we sinners
By all means, victorious, the world witness
I'm more vicious, for ya'll seven course delicious
Silver spoons, we pillage crews, cause convictors
The most wanted, my soul haunted, roads to riches
Leave you broke on it, we spoke on it, cold as winters
So hibernatin', sweet dreams, we violent apes
With higher stakes, nightmare niggas that rhyme on tapes
Inject the drugs, we messengers, from violent days
Soon to come, just move from us, find your way
In a world of hurt, backstabbers and murderers
Niggas roll the bud, and burn a Dutch, I turn it up
Just another notch, we smother spots across the globes
On Fordham Roads in Metropolis, Boston foes
These men don't cry (why) we just get even (even)
Stop them from eatin', kill 'em all softly
Of course we be (creepin') of course we be (reachin')
Who, me? M-E-T, H, the O, the D, can't be done
Like try'nna find a penny in the sea
Nigga run, for cover son, go and get them guns
Ya'll ain't from here, don't try to come around here gettin' one
You get done here, just for askin'
Stick the key in the lock to Pandora's Box
Lungs collapsin', gaspin' for breaths
Lord Have Mercy, it hurts me, to know
Thirst is everything and I'm still thirsty
Ask myself, who the boss label try'nna work me
Next time, don't forget my dick when you jerk me
Try'nna stop my conquest, I'm like a one legged man
In an ass kicking contest, hah
Walk a mile in my shoe, whoop an ass or two
Cop a nasty attitude, still I ain't mad at you
Hurry up and take your time, buck-ed naked nine
Take your shores high, and make it mines, word
Until we even, or one of us is barely breathin'
Shaolin, we in the house, and we ain't leavin'
The Loooooooooooooord Have Mercy, muthafucka
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (hah)
Johnny Blaze (hah!) Al Simmons (hah!)
Wu-Tang (hah!) *Flipmode* (what?)
Word is bond, Shaolin, Brooklyn
What it look like, what it be like
What it sound like, what it feel like, muthafucka (you know?)
All day, Brooklyn to Staten Island, connected
Put it all together, it's basic) Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!