I'm 47 and My Taste Buds are a Threat To Society Currently Running a Conspiracy

I’m 47 Years Old and My Taste Buds Are Running a Conspiracy

I don’t know who changed my stomach’s settings, but I would like to file a formal complaint.

Because at 47, eating is no longer a casual activity.
It’s a medical event.

At this point, if I want to eat any goddamn thing ANYTHING — I have to take nausea medication. Not occasionally. Not “if my stomach is acting up.” Not “maybe later.”

Every.
Single.
Day.

Sometimes three or four of them motherfuckers in one day because my stomach wakes up already on level 20 for absolutely no reason. No warning. No trigger. Just chaos.

I haven’t done anything wrong.
I didn’t offend it.
I didn’t eat reckless.
I didn’t drink a gallon of hot sauce before bed.

And yet here we are.



My Stomach Is No Longer a Team Player

My stomach used to be dependable. We had an understanding. I fed it, it behaved.

Now?
It’s unpredictable. Emotional. Dramatic. And absolutely refuses to cooperate without medication like it’s on strike.

And the wildest part?

My taste buds have decided to change personalities too.

Foods I hated my entire life?
Suddenly acceptable.

Foods I loved?
Now suspicious.

Explain it.



Let’s Start With Onions — THE SWITCH-UP

I used to not eat onions.
Ever.

Not raw. Not cooked. Not hidden. Not “you won’t even taste it.” Absolutely not.

Now?

I’m fine.

Onions are in things now and I don’t even flinch. They’re sautéed, caramelized, mixed in — and my stomach is like, “Yeah, okay.”

WHAT.

Who approved this change?
Who updated the software?

Because my younger self would be horrified watching me eat onions voluntarily.



Brussels Sprouts: The Biggest Plot Twist of My Life

Now let’s talk about Brussels sprouts.

I used to look at them like they were punishment. Like they were invented to humble children.

But now?

You sauté them motherfuckers with some onion, bell peppers, and some good-ass seasoning?

I’m tearing them bitches UP.

Eating them like they owe me money.

Who am I?

Because the woman I used to be would NEVER.

This is identity theft.



Seafood Still Ain’t It (And Don’t Sneak It Into My Mouth)

Now let me be clear.

I have never been a seafood girl.

Shrimp? No.
Crab? No.
None of that shit.

One day my sister says,
“Close your eyes. Let me put something in your mouth.”

First of all — pause.
That sentence alone should have ended the experiment.

But I trusted her.
Family betrayal always hits hardest.

She put it in my mouth.

I almost died.

Not because it tasted bad — but because the texture betrayed me.

I am a texture person.

If something is:
• sticky
• gooey
• gummy

I am OUT.

My body will reject it like a bad organ transplant. I don’t care how seasoned it is, how fresh it is, or how expensive it is.

Texture will shut the whole operation down.



THIS Is Why I Need the Menu Ahead of Time

This is also why — if you ever ask me out — I need DETAILS.

Not vibes.
Not “we’ll figure it out.”
Not “I know a place.”

Absolutely not.

I need:
• the name of the restaurant
• the date
• the time
• and MOST IMPORTANTLY — THE MENU

Because I have to study the menu.

I need to scan it like it’s a legal document. I need to know: Is there something I can eat?
Is my stomach going to revolt?
Are there safe foods?
Are there hidden ingredients?

I cannot walk into a restaurant blind and just “figure it out.”

That is not adventurous.
That is reckless.



My Anxiety and My Stomach Are in Cahoots

My anxiety, my PTSD, and my stomach are in a full-blown alliance.

They have meetings.

They sit down together before I leave the house and say:

> “No surprises.”



They do not play.

If I ignore them?
My stomach will embarrass me publicly.

So yes I need the menu.

And no that does not make me difficult.

It makes me prepared.



Eating Is Now a Strategy Game

Eating at 47 is no longer about hunger.

It’s about:
• timing
• medication
• mood
• texture
• seasoning
• and whether my stomach feels like cooperating today

Some days it’s cool.
Some days it’s dramatic.
Some days it’s like, “Absolutely not, try again tomorrow.”

This is not a lifestyle choice.

This is survival.



The Real Conspiracy

The real conspiracy is how nobody warns you.

Nobody tells you that after a certain age:
• your bladder switches up
• your memory disappears
• your eyesight rebels
• and now your stomach and taste buds join the chaos

Everything just starts malfunctioning quietly.

And you’re expected to adapt without complaint.



Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With Trust Issues and Antacids Nearby

I don’t know what happens after a certain age, but it feels like your body starts freelancing.

Your stomach decides what it will and won’t tolerate.
Your taste buds rewrite the rules.
Your anxiety becomes the project manager.

And you just want to eat in peace.

So if I ask for the menu ahead of time, mind your business.
If I take medication before I eat, mind your business.
If I refuse to “just try it,” MIND YOUR BUSINESS.

I am not being dramatic.

I am being 47.