Cosmic Reset? Gut Mutiny? Or Both?
How the Black Moon Ended My Relationship with McDonald’s
So… the Black Moon hit on August 23rd, and apparently my digestive system decided to join the party. I wish I could say it was a graceful release of old patterns, like some kind of enlightened swan floating off into the ether. Nope. Try labor-level cramping followed by a bathroom marathon that would make an exorcism look subtle.
Here’s the thing: I don’t even eat McDonald’s that often. But August 24th? Yeah. I got lazy and rolled the dice. And I swear the Black Moon used my gut as a megaphone to say: “No. More. McDonald’s. Ever.”
Because while my brain can rationalize anything (“It’s convenient, it’s cheap, I’ll just get a small fry”), my body staged a full-on digestive system coup d’état. Not food poisoning, not random bad luck — just my system crossing its arms and declaring, “Cute story. Nope. Not today.”
Why the Black Moon Timing Mattered
For anyone who doesn’t track lunar drama: a Black Moon is the second new moon in a calendar month (some astrologers also tie it to Lilith’s energy). Either way, it’s considered a cosmic “reset button” — the kind of energy that drags hidden patterns out of the shadows and says, “We’re done with this cycle. Time for something new.”
So, while some people journal intentions or light candles, apparently my body went straight for the nuclear option: shut down, purge out, and refuse to carry another bite of low-vibe drive-thru into the next lunar cycle.
And honestly? I kind of love that. It wasn’t just a stomach revolt. It felt like a final word from my body and Spirit — an official eviction notice to old junk, both energetic and edible.
The Symbolism Was Unavoidable:
The cramps felt like contractions: birthing myself into a new cycle.
The bathroom theatrics? Explosive release. Zero negotiation.
The aftercare was basically a ritual: water, rest, and the sacred vow that never again will I hand Ronald McDonald the keys to my gut.
And here’s the deeper takeaway: when we hit shadowy, potent portals like a Black Moon, it’s not always some blissful meditation. Sometimes it’s your body flipping the table and saying “We’re not carrying this garbage into the next cycle.”
So yeah. Goodbye McDonald’s. And thank you, Black Moon, for the most savage breakup intervention I’ve ever had.
Dear Ronald,
We need to talk. It’s not me, it’s definitely you.
You’ve been in and out of my life for years, showing up with fries and false promises. Sure, you were convenient, cheap, and always open late — but that’s not love, that’s entrapment.
Under the Black Moon, my body finally staged the intervention I didn’t know I needed. Cramping, chaos, and an intestinal uprising of epic proportions. Message received.
I deserve better. Better ingredients, better vibes, better mornings after. So I’m reclaiming my gut, my energy, and my dignity.
Goodbye, Ronald. Don’t call, don’t text, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t send coupons.
Sincerely,
A former fry addict turned free woman.
So that’s the tale of my Black Moon purge. And honestly? I couldn’t have scripted a better cosmic intervention. Some people write intentions under a dark sky; I staged a bathroom coup and divorced a clown. Different rituals, same result: a fresh cycle, a lighter body, and zero regret.
xo,
Jade