I’m 35 days away from this stupid runDisney 5K I signed up for, and I’m having regrets. I’ve never been a cardio girl, aside from dancing, so I knew I had to train. My goal was to get to race day and be able to slowly jog the entire 3.1 miles without needing to stop for walk breaks. It seems like a good measure of cardiovascular health — being able to run for three measly miles.

I’m nowhere close to doing it. I won’t get there. It’s not happening.

My bum-ass knee — the one that was always messed up from dancing competitively as a kid — started acting up around training week three. I thought it was a good idea to add dance classes into my exercise rotation to get extra cardio on non-run days. Bad idea. My knee did not like that.

After ten days off, I got back into it more slowly and with my knee held together by kinesiology tape, and I can still only manage short intervals of walking and running. I hate every minute of it.

If I was running alone, I probably wouldn’t care. Lots of people walk the entire thing. But my cousin and his husband are joining me, and they’re being trained by some psycho who runs marathons, and now I’ll just have to let them leave me in the dust so I don’t hold them back.

My friends who do all the runDisney events tell me I’ll be hooked, that I’ll eventually do a half marathon. I disagree. I might be the only person who does a 5K and thinks, cool, I don’t have to do that again.

Who are these freaks that get runner’s high, and where can I get some? I only have runner’s anger, runner’s regret, runner’s disdain.

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And before you ask, yes, I have the right shoes. I’m eating enough protein and carbs. I’m not running too fast, and I know it’s mental and blah blah blah. Go away. I hate it.

I had this bright idea that while I was training for this horrible race, I would also join a 40 Days to Personal Revolution program. I completed this at my old yoga studio in 2013, and it changed my life. I broke up with an abusive partner, lost fifteen pounds, developed a meditation practice, and connected deeper to myself.

My current yoga studio doesn’t offer the program, so when I saw a virtual version available with the founder, I joined instantly. In the program, you do yoga six days a week, meditate twice a day, meet with a group twice a week, and complete shadow-work-type journaling exercises.

I was desperate to recreate the success I had with it thirteen years ago, but it was too much to take on with race training. Plus, I’m so sick of Zoom meetings with groups of people who only want to hear themselves talk.

I stopped after week three.

It’s embarrassing how typical this is — going into a new year guns blazing, only to crash and burn shortly after. To be fair, I haven’t had a New Year’s resolution in years. I was so down in the dumps and hopeless for like five whole years that I didn’t even bother setting a single goal.

But this isn’t giving up. It’s reevaluating.

I already do lots of yoga and get my steps in. I’m more active at 35 than I was at 15. It’s okay for me to just settle into that and focus on areas I’m avoiding… like writing.

Almost everything I post on Substack has been written in less than three hours. I ghost the platform for 10–14 days and then publish something when I have a creative surge of energy. I don’t write every day, and if I write once a week, that’s a good week.

I so desperately want to be one of those people who has a writing practice, who takes this seriously. I love this platform. I feel so accomplished and good about everything I publish, so why is it like pulling teeth to just sit down and write?

When I think about why I avoid it, I know it’s because I’m afraid to put out “bad” writing. I know I’m not the best writer. I’m okay with not being the best writer. I just don’t want to be the worst, you know?

I don’t write beautiful prose, and I think you can very obviously hear the Staten Island college dropout in my writing.

But is that such a bad thing?

I see the Substack Notes of people joking about how they have multiple drafts they never post, and I’m just like howwww? Do I need to take yet another whack at The Artist’s Way? Meditate more? What’s it gonna take to get over this?

Unlike the running thing, I won’t yell at you if you give me tips in the comments.

On a positive note, I now have NINE (!!!) paying subscribers to CHEEKY. I suspect my new series, Hot Girl Protocol, is to thank for the recent jump.

In case you missed it, Hot Girl Protocol is where I try a practice, habit, ritual, etc. for 21–30 days and report back. It’s completely free to read, but any extras like interviews with experts or bonus resources are reserved for paying subscribers.

I’m prepping for the next one now, where I’ll be getting fully dressed for 30 days. Yes, even though I work from home. But it goes much deeper than that, and the expert I interviewed is an absolute badass friend of mine.

In the meantime, be sure to read the last installment where I try manual lymphatic drainage for 30 days.

Now I’m off to Magic Kingdom for the day and then Detroit for the weekend. My husband is turning 40 tomorrow, so I’m meeting him on his business trip.

Enjoy the photos below of the Sopranos-themed birthday party I threw for him last weekend!

love u!

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Now that I’ve lost a bit of weight, I can’t help but notice how differently men are treating me. Not “omg dat ass” different, but I didn’t realize how invisible I was before. Men barely held the door for me or looked me in the eyes when I was 35 pounds heavier. But now that I’m smaller (but still technically considered obese lol), they’re starting to get creepy again. I forgot what it felt like to be scared of men all the time. I can’t go for a walk without getting eye-fucked by creepy construction workers or being honked at by random men in cars. It makes me wonder if a subconscious fear of being seen by weirdos is what’s made it so difficult to keep weight off my entire life. When you’ve been getting sexually harassed since age 11, having a hot body just doesn’t feel worth it. Maybe this is why I don’t have a juicy ass yet. I’m too afraid! Remind me to look into self-defense classes. I can’t let this dream die.

At 35, I’m starting to feel some of the regrets about the experiences in life I haven’t had. I know I’m still young and I have time to do some things, like traveling the world and finally learning how to ride a bike. Lol, don’t ask. But there are other things that just can’t happen once you reach a certain age. For some people, that could be the unrealized goal of becoming a professional athlete or never doing a semester abroad in college. For me, it’s the sad fact that I never had a slutty job.

When I say “slut” or “slutty,” it’s a term of endearment. I’ve reclaimed it for myself. I deeply, deeply regret not having a slutty — or slut-adjacent — job in my 20s. What’s a slutty job, you ask? It’s a job where you’re hired based on your level of hotness. Think Hooters server, go-go dancer, bottle girl, promotional model — any job where you can make cash tips from smiling and showing your cleavage. Sure, a lot of those jobs involve being objectified, but you can laugh your way to the bank and evade taxes at the same time. Sounds like a win-win to me. I, instead, spent my twenties working my way up the ladder in the beauty industry and being slutty for free. I mourn the life I never had.

Don’t get me wrong, life is good. Better than it’s been in a while. Uh-oh, you know what that means! The devil on my shoulder is all, be a psycho, burn it all down, babe.

Life is so good and calm right now that it makes me want to be love-bombed and/or recruited into a cult so badly. Have you ever felt that way? I think back to the time I was recruited into an MLM, and the women in my upline had me believing I’d made friends for life. I couldn’t wait to travel the country attending seminars. I dreamed of the day I’d finally “earn” my red Mustang. It was all motivational conference calls and vision board parties until I didn’t sell anything and went $3,000 into debt. But it was so fun while it lasted. I felt so alive.

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok

Welcome to the first installment of Hot Girl Protocol. In this series, I’ll be trying products, habits, rituals, diets, and exercises for at least 21 days before reporting back with my honest, uncensored review. If you have a drawer full of beauty products you don’t use, a piece of exercise equipment that’s now become a place to hang your laundry, or a stack of half-read books, then you’ll like it here.

This piece and the ones that follow will be free to read. However, if you upgrade to a paid subscription, you’ll get any bonus material and freebies included at the end. So don’t let the paywall freak you out. You can keep reading, and even if you don’t upgrade, I think you’ll walk away with a lot.

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Writing and experimenting for this piece taught me more about rituals and habits than I thought it would. In the last 15-ish months, I’ve eased myself into a life of healthy discipline. I’ve naturally lost 30 pounds. I’m training for a 5K. I’m meticulous with my Google Calendar. Hell, I even started flossing more regularly.

But as I dove headfirst into my first month of Hot Girl Protocol, I realized how easy it is to stick with habits and rituals when there’s a very obvious and instant result. If you reduce your calories, you’ll probably see the number on the scale drop. When you floss regularly, your teeth feel squeaky clean. But not all habits have such obvious results, or at least not right away.

I think we all glamorize being “that girl,” thanks to TikTok brain rot. We see skinny East Village 25-year-olds wearing neutral Alo Yoga sets, drinking matcha at 5 AM before heading to Pilates at 6 AM, and they make discipline look so sexy. I think it might always look sexy from the outside looking in?

If it wasn’t for the fact that I announced to Substack that I’d be starting this series, I’m not so sure I would’ve gone through with it. Seriously, I almost gave up two weeks in because I thought it “wasn’t working.” Boy, was I wrong.

Lymphatic drainage was my gateway drug into wellness. Sometime around 2018, I was introduced to Lauryn Bosstick, a.k.a. The Skinny Confidential. I heard her on a podcast talking about lymphatic drainage, which she credited for her gorgeous skin. I literally pulled my car over mid-podcast to order a gua sha stone and face oil on Amazon.

I stuck with it for a while, but never daily. Something about having to lather my face with oil and massage for 5–10 minutes on top of everything else I do on my skin felt daunting af. So my gua sha routine became more and more sporadic until it was non-existent. I didn’t stop there, though. I wanted to look snatched, de-puffed, and all the things. So I tried dry brushing, promising I’d do it before every shower. I kept forgetting, even though I had the brush hanging with my towel. Then I bought a giant gua sha stone for my body, which I used approximately 1.5 times. Did I think it would somehow be less daunting to gua sha my entire effing body? I even tried rebounding a few times after a generous friend gifted me a mini trampoline. And in case you haven’t guessed by now, that was also short-lived. I almost bought a vibration plate when they were trending on TikTok Shop, but then I thought “who are you kidding?!”

On all my socials, I have various saved collections of lymphatic drainage tutorials, none of which I’ve actually done, because why are they all over 10 minutes long? Who has the time?

I had all the information and products I could ever need, and yet I couldn’t stay committed. If buying all of these products and watching a gazillion TikToks hasn’t translated into action, what would?

This series is about commitment and habit-forming, but I quickly learned that you can’t always force yourself into a habit. Sometimes you need to adjust, pivot, or simplify to find what sticks.

Enter Brit…

Even though I knew lymphatic drainage would make its way into this series, I wasn’t sure when. But when I saw Brit Adams, friend and licensed massage therapist, comment on my announcement post, I decided to start here.

Brit is one of my many online friends. If you have a remote business or are a freelancer, then you may also have online friends whom you’ve never met IRL. I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing some of Brit’s magic during a group coaching program we were in, so I knew she had to be involved in this piece.

And since my Googling and TikToking only ended up confusing me more, I decided to interview her and get some expert tips before diving into my personal experiment.

In preparation for our call, I gathered all my lymph-things: my gua sha stone(s), two dry brushes — one for the body and another for the face — an ice roller, and my NuFACE device (I don’t think the NuFACE is for lymphatic drainage, and I’ve only used it four times, lol). I was ready to show off and be the student who had so much potential, “but only if she applied herself!” — pretty much what I heard from all my teachers in school.

I figured Brit would tell me I’m doing everything right and that I’d just have to suck it up and stick with it. But I didn’t even have a chance to show off everything I own because, get this, I didn’t need any of it.

Brit doesn’t just specialize in lymphatic drainage. She’s trained in Manual Lymphatic Drainage. So all you need to do is use your hands.

So that’s where the manual part of Manual Lymphatic Drainage comes in. It’s supposed to be done with your hands, duh! No tools necessary. Over-consumption strikes again. It’s not bad or wrong to use tools, but using your hands and touching yourself (get your mind out of the gutter!) releases oxytocin. Incorporating an MLD practice can help lower cortisol, get your body into a parasympathetic state, and encourage the lymphatic system, since it doesn’t have a pump. So while MLD can make you look snatched, it’s really about helping the body do what it already wants to do.

According to Brit, this is foundational self-care — just like putting on a face mask or writing in your journal. And it’s not just about how it makes you feel. Brit, along with many of her clients, has experienced insane results after incorporating a daily lymph practice. She personally attributes an 80-pound weight loss and the resolution of her PCOS symptoms to it. Her clients have had miraculous results ranging from relieving symptoms of Lyme disease to reducing symptoms during detox from alcohol or drugs.

And the best part? This doesn’t need to be a long, ritualistic practice to work. Doing it in small increments throughout the day is even more effective than one long 30-minute session.

So here’s the gist of the practice: it relies on movement, breath, and gentle stimulation in the “big six” lymphatic areas — the collarbone, sides of the neck, armpits, abdomen, groin, and behind the knees.

While taking deep breaths, you do gentle rubs, circular motions, and tapping in each area, starting with the collarbone up to the sides of the neck, then moving down to the armpits, abdomen, groin, and ending with the back of the knees.

Brit walks us through a full tutorial in the video reserved for paid subscribers, and it’s way less daunting than using devices and rubbing your face or body with oils every day. According to Brit, doing an MLD practice daily for two minutes is more beneficial than paying a practitioner for occasional, expensive sessions.

So I decided to approach my own experiment with one rule… just show up. It didn’t need to be perfect. I didn’t put pressure on myself to do it at the same time every day. It just had to get done. I made sure to put it in my daily planner every single day because obviously checking something off a to-do list is an instant boost of serotonin. By the way, I’m totally obsessed with being a digital planning iPad girly.

I wanted it to naturally fit into my day. There were times I did the routine on the couch while watching TV. There were days when I stood up from my desk and did it in the middle of my workday. But my favorite has been in the few minutes before a yoga class starts. I’m always one of the first ones in the room because God forbid I don’t get an ideal spot to do a headstand against the wall. So while the room is quiet and I’m already in a peaceful headspace, it’s nice to take the time and do my lymph routine then.

I had high expectations going in. After seeing girls snatching their waists overnight and hearing Brit’s weight loss story, I thought I’d see results instantly. But the reality was that at first, not much happened. Like I said, I almost gave up after the first two weeks. I thought about how awkward it would be to tell Brit that I wasn’t seeing results and even considered pivoting to a new topic so I wouldn’t have to bash a practice that so many people love.

But then I remembered that I’m not immune to wanting instant gratification and how quickly I’ve been to abandon practices that don’t deliver immediately. Social media only feeds that expectation, and I don’t want to be part of these toxic cycles anymore. So I asked myself how many things have I quit right before they started working?

And I gave it the time to let it work.

The first noticeable shift was in my digestion. Once every few weeks for the past year, I’d have a random spell of constipation. Not to be gross, but it felt like I never fully emptied, if you know what I mean. But ever since starting this practice, I’ve been going regularly and haven’t had an issue since — despite having a few nights of drinking alcohol and eating less-than-optimal foods for digestion.

There were also a few stressful situations that would’ve normally sent me into an absolute mental spiral, yet I felt weirdly regulated. I even think my husband was freaked out by how calm I was. I’m not proud to say that I lean on him for a lot of emotional support when I’m stressed, and I think we were both shocked by how steady I felt despite a few really stressful moments over the last month.

As many of you know, I’ve been on a weight loss journey, and I lost four pounds in January. But I swear I look like I lost twelve. The thing that surprised me the most, though, was when I got my period. It pretty much snuck up on me. No mood swings. No bloating. No usual chin pimple.

The days before I get my period are usually brutal. It’s all doom and gloom with a tiny mountain growing on my chin. But this time, it literally came out of nowhere with virtually no bloating, glowing skin, a reduction in cramps, and a shorter cycle. It lasted four days instead of the usual six to seven.

So even though my initial experiment was 30 days, at the time of writing this, I’m seven weeks in and still going strong.

What this has taught me is that discipline, keeping promises to myself, and choosing a practice that seamlessly fits into my life create something that eventually feels like second nature. I prioritize my lymph practice in the same way that I do brushing my teeth. I don’t intend to give it up.

And I think the biggest takeaway for me is that there are things we can do every single day that are 100% free. Any person, regardless of privilege or socioeconomic status, could do this practice.

Thank you to Brit Adams for being a part of the first installment of Hot Girl Protocol! If you want to connect with her and learn more about her offers, you can visit her site or email her at wildrootllc@gmail.com.

Paid subscribers will have access to a Notion dashboard generously provided by Brit, as well as the ability to watch our full interview, including a tutorial of the exact sequence I’ve been doing every day. Paid subscribers also get access to the comment section and group chat so we can hold each other accountable.

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“This guy is a stalkerrrr,” I whined in disgust as my phone buzzed again. “It’s 2018! You don’t just cold-call people anymore!”

It must have been the fourth call in the last 36 hours, all of which had gone unanswered. We’d spent Sunday Funday chatting and sharing drunken kisses at the Jersey Shore before exchanging numbers for a tentative date later that week. He was the first guy in years who wanted to take me on a real date… at like 8 PM … for actual dinner.

The other guys in my life couldn’t be bothered to communicate in full sentences. Drunken “u up?” or “wyd?” texts would hit my inbox late into the night. A man was finally putting in real effort to get to know me. I should have been happy about this. Why wasn’t I happy?

After a few years of soul-sucking situationships and meaningless hookups, I thought I was ready for a real relationship again. And after all, this wasn’t a marriage proposal. The poor guy was just calling me, like he said he would. What a weirdo.

An employed man in his thirties who was kind and handsome was calling me to make dinner plans. At the peak of hookup culture, it was like hitting the lottery. But I just wasn’t… feeling it. Something was off.

“This is why you can’t find a nice guy!” my mother snapped, growing tired of my single party girl antics. Maybe there was such a thing as being too honest with your parents.

But with each call, my heart raced, and my stomach did cartwheels, and not in an omg I like this guy way. More like I’m going to have to change my number and fake my own death.

As women, we’re sold this idea that all men are trash who just want one thing. So if you’re fortunate enough to meet a guy who shows interest in you beyond what was between your legs, you were supposed to pounce on him before someone else snatched him up.

But what happens if you’re lucky enough to meet one of these unicorn men and your intuition tells you something is wrong? Get this: you’re expected to go on the date anyway. I’d lost count of how many times I’d heard things like, “I didn’t like my husband right away, he grew on me,” and “Give the guy a chance. Worst-case scenario, you get a free meal out of it.”

Are we really that desperate for free meals? Maybe, in this economy. But I’d rather starve than have dinner with a man I didn’t like.

Up until this point, I hadn’t been on many first dates. All of my exes I’d met through school or mutual friends, and we’d done the Netflix-and-chill thing until eventually finding ourselves in a relationship. I’d never experienced a meet-cute at a bar or library, and to this day, I’d never been on a date with someone I’d met on a dating app.

The thought of sharing a meal with a stranger was scarier to me than sleeping with them. Dinner felt too intimate.

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My late teens into early twenties were spent dating two awful guys in quick succession. The first one was a controlling and abusive psychopath who practically locked me up in his parents’ basement with him until I worked up the courage to leave. Then, a year later, I began dating a love-bombing, gaslighting manipulator who I found cheating on me by hacking his Snapchat account.

By my mid-twenties, I’d learned that being in a serious relationship meant toxic arguments, lots of tears, and abandoning myself. I decided on no more relationships for a long time. This meant no dates, no dinner, no feelings. I thought that being the cool, down-for-anything girl was easier. Little did I know that the cool girls still get their hearts broken and cry more than the girls in bad relationships.

But I was determined to change things, to take more risks with my heart, and to get out of my comfort zone. No more Netflix-and-chill. I was approaching thirty and knew I deserved more than late-night texts and lazy couch hangouts. But I was ready to find the guy, not just a guy. Going on “just because” Plan B dates with men whose calls I avoided didn’t feel like the way to go about it.

Rapid texts followed the missed phone calls. This guy wasn’t letting up, and I felt sicker with each notification. Was I self-sabotaging? Was I so used to the casual, no-strings-attached thing that someone calling me for more than a booty call was enough to make me spiral?

“Or!!!” my gut screamed at me from within, “maybe it is weird and creepy for a guy to call you repeatedly and you should stop gaslighting yourself into thinking otherwise.”

It’s attractive when a guy puts his pride aside to actively pursue you, but this was on another level. I wasn’t looking to play games, but he was incapable of playing it cool. Why was this guy acting so desperate to reach me?

I had to get to the bottom of it. I didn’t care that he was cute, and nice, and respectful. It didn’t matter that he was a unicorn, because something just didn’t feel right.

It took less than a 30-second Google search for me to find out he’d lied about his age. He was 37, not 32, like he’d told me. If he could lie about something so stupid, what else was he capable of? I finally texted him back, this time letting him down easy. I didn’t bother telling him what I’d found out.

Then, whoooosh, the anxiety left my body and I melted into my bed like butter. Not because I’d successfully avoided the dreaded intimate dinner date. Not because I could smugly tell my mom I was right. I was relieved because, against all the dating rules and advice out there, which never resonated with me anyway, I decided to listen to my instincts instead.

I used to think that finding love meant I had to date around and kiss lots of frogs. But maybe the key to finding the love you’re looking for is trusting yourself enough to turn down a unicorn, no matter how good he looks on paper.

I added a lil voicenote as a follow-up with some extra backstory 👇🏻

If you want to connect, follow me on Instagram or TikTok 📲

But things weren’t always this way. I used to be a messy, forgetful disaster.

If I had a nickel for every time a teacher told me, “If only you would apply yourself,” I would be a gazillionaire. I rarely ever did my homework. I forgot about book reports and science projects until the night before, if I remembered at all. And my school desk? Remember the ones with the cubbyhole underneath for your books? It was jammed with crumpled sheets of loose-leaf paper and unsharpened pencils.

My bedroom almost always had laundry, dirty and clean, piled in every corner, and a wastebasket that was overflowing.

In high school, while most of my friends showed up with straight-ironed hair and Abercrombie outfits they laid out the night before, I’d throw on school-branded sweatpants and coat my lashes with expired mascara in the passenger seat of my mom’s car.

In my first few years as a makeup artist, I’d show up to the Macy’s beauty department in a boring outfit: black T-shirt, black jeans, black booties, no accessories (yikes), with my hair slicked back in a pony because I’d only wake up with enough time to prioritize my makeup.

In my mid-twenties, things started to slowly shift. Maybe it had something to do with the passion I had for my job at the time. I was working at MAC Cosmetics and desperately wanted a promotion. I think it was also around the time when ’s Girlboss came out. I devoured the book in a few days. I knew I wanted to live an extraordinary life, so I had to step things up.

So I started with things like making the bed and tidying up my bedroom every day. I noticed how much more cozy and relaxed I felt at night before bed. I started planning my outfits for work with intention and leaving extra time to curl my hair. My colleagues and supervisors responded to me differently, and I went on to receive three promotions in three years.

Making the bed and getting fully dressed for work are hardly accomplishments, but for someone who grew up kinda lazy, it was a big deal for me. And these days, the thought of passing out in my makeup or forgetting to take my vitamins gives me goosebumps.

I’ve picked up and put down so many habits, routines, and products over the last few years without committing for long enough to see any real benefit. Some of the things I’ve inconsistently tried include gua sha, dry brushing, oil pulling, morning pages, meditation, walking 10,000 steps a day, wrinkle patches, drinking enough water, breathwork, acupressure mats, hair oiling, jumping on a trampoline, and eating enough protein. You get the point.

But in the midst of trying something new, I’d get distracted like a squirrel and go running toward it in the other direction.

The last few years have been a dark night of the soul. I’ve lost my job, gained weight, gone viral on TikTok, started and closed an online coaching business, worked a few shitty jobs, moved from New York to Florida, and gotten married… just to name a few things. My life has changed in so many ways, and I’ve done more soul-searching than a person needs to do in their entire lifetime just in the last five years.

And sometimes that soul-searching involved habits, products, routines, and practices recommended to me through a viral piece of content. I was so desperate to find the solution to my chaos that I was willing to believe something like drinking more bone broth or learning to pull my tarot cards would fix my life. I’ve collected so many tools and resources over the last five years, but I can’t honestly say I’ve given any of them a fair shot at “working.”

I’m at a point in my life where I feel mostly good day-to-day. I’ve started to lose weight. I’m freelancing as a social media manager, and I’m consistently posting over here in my little corner of Substack. I’ve taken a lot of pressure off myself to live perfectly and overload my days with never-ending habits.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. Is it possible that if I gave some of these things a significant amount of time to work, they would actually change me? Even though I’m not living my dream life yet, I’m hell-bent on getting there. And I think the level at which a person commits to their self-care and habits can be a direct reflection of how successful they are.

I’m not sure I’ve ever actually reached a New Year’s resolution. In the last few years, I stopped making them altogether. But I’m realizing that we’re doing resolutions all wrong. We can’t control the exact number on the scale or the dollar amount in our checking account. We can only control the habits and routines necessary to get us closer to those goals. So that’s what I’m committing to.

Introducing…

The Hot Girl Protocol, a CHEEKY Substack series.

They say you need 21 days to start a habit, so each month, for at least 21 days, I’ll commit to a new routine, try a new product, or implement a new practice. Then I’ll report back with my no-bullshit review, and ultimately decide if it’s something I’ll stick to for the long haul.

Prior to going to makeup school and becoming a makeup artist, I had a little beauty blog. I only posted a handful of times, but I thought I’d have a career reviewing products and doing makeup tutorials. This was in 2010, before blogging and content creation were considered real work. I was discouraged from pursuing this endeavor by my pretentious SoHo beauty school instructors, but I can’t say I ever stopped wanting to share my recommendations online.

Am I the only one who’s been feeling super nostalgic for beauty magazines lately? I know they still exist, but not in the same way they once did. I sometimes wonder if, in another life – one where I did well in school and didn’t drop out of college – I might have ended up working as a beauty writer for Glamour magazine or something like that. So, selfishly, this will also be a fun way to live out that dream.

It’s important to note that we are living in the age of mass consumerism, influencer culture, and new-age spirituality. Part of the reason I’ve tried and bought so many things is because I was the perfect victim. Being sad, fat, and unemployed can make you desperate. And being desperate helps you rationalize swiping your credit card.

I think we’re all sick of buying shit we don’t need, so I promise to make my reviews as honest as possible. My reviews will not always involve a product. Oftentimes, I’ll be solely adopting a habit. If I do share a product, I may include an affiliate link, which I’ll do my best to disclose every single time.

I’ll be starting in January. Let’s get hotttt.

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PS – The reviews themselves will be free to read, but paying subscribers will have access to exclusive perks: tutorials, video footage, voice notes, photos, and behind-the-scenes content. I’ll also be reserving the chat and comments section for paid subs.

Your first year of a paid subscription is only $40. This promo will end on December 31, so get in now 🩷

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Influencers across TikTok are armchair-experting their way through the current Jaclyn Hill drama. In case you’re not chronically online on TikTok, the TL;DR is that OG beauty influencer Jaclyn Hill posted a video complaining about getting low TikTok views.

According to most comments and many response videos, Jaclyn’s unrelatability plays a major role in her decline. The beauty influencer started YouTube back when she was on food stamps, and now she wears designer clothes, has owned multiple homes, and drives fancy cars.

Some disagree, like this video from livigoldi saying that it’s okay to be unrelatable as long as you advocate for communities you aren’t a part of and speak up politically. It’s a sentiment we’ve heard ad nauseam, right? Use your platform for good and all that.

And while, yeah, I’m sure some people have unfollowed influencers for their unrelatability or their unwillingness to speak out against injustices, I don’t think that’s the majority. I think the reason for Jaclyn Hill’s downfall is much simpler and much less romanticized than we think.

The real reason no one cares about Jaclyn Hill anymore isn’t because she’s not the Mother Teresa of influencers. It’s because she’s hiding who she really is. Deep down, she’s a bad girl cosplaying a good girl, so everything about her content just feels lukewarm.

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She’s always struck me as the kind of girl who says the thing out loud that everyone’s thinking but is too afraid to say. She’s abrasive, loud, and cancel-culture bait. But when you’re afraid of being canceled (again), you begin to self-censor, and that’s boring af.

IMO, TikTok views don’t boil down to relatability or Using Your Platform for Good, whatever that means. It’s about authenticity and what you’re providing your audience, and she’s currently providing a sedative via short-form content. Yawn.

What started as a platform built on educational beauty content quickly devolved into tacky over-consumption, inconsistent posting, and a sales pitch around every corner. We all long for the days when Jaclyn taught us how to perfectly apply our Champagne Pop highlighter. If she isn’t going to bless our feed with educational content, then she sure as hell better be entertaining or inspiring us. Right now, she’s doing none of the above.

She is rich-rich, possibly one of the first influencers to make an insane amount of money online. I was personally introduced to her content through a viral closet tour video she posted years ago on YouTube. It wasn’t relatable to me at the time, and unfortunately, it’s still not. But I found it aspirational. I enjoy that sort of content. Lots of people do. Yes, the financial landscape in the U.S. is difficult right now, but there will always be an audience for closet tours and Sephora hauls.

So no, I don’t buy this unrelatable bullshit. We are living in the era of new-age spirituality. The manifestation girlies are currently defrosting as we lead up to New Year, New Me Vision-Board Season. There is an audience for luxury and out-of-touch influencers.

Because what people really want is honesty. We’re tired of people lying about who they are, even if they’re flawed. We want people who say things with their whole fucking chest. Maybe these are people who unapologetically say controversial things or who genuinely don’t give a fuck about the political landscape, but at least they’re honest about it.

It doesn’t mean it’s right. It doesn’t mean it’s moral. But it’s real, for crying out loud. And in a world where people set up their cameras and pretend to get candid moments, we want real.

Many viral women are unrelatable, sometimes controversial, and flat-out toxic. See Anna Delvey, Caroline Calloway, HRH Collection, Liv Schmidt, and Julia Fox. None of those women pretends to be a good girl. They are viral sensations because they stay true to themselves and take the criticism on the chin.

Jaclyn Hill, baby girl, lean the fuck in. Right now, you’re giving lukewarm, and we’re bored to tears. Give us even more luxury. Give us your controversial, unpopular opinions. Say the shit you know will piss people off, since we know it’s what you really think inside anyway.

I’m not going to sit here and tell you what’s right and what’s wrong. But I am here to say that this idea that we all want people to be relatable, upstanding citizens is a lie. What we really want is authenticity, to know that somebody is telling the truth and being themselves instead of a watered-down, cancel-proof version.

We are romanticizing our influencers in the same way we romanticize politicians. We think we’re going to make the “right people” famous and they’ll change the world.

But energies of fame and celebrity have no morals. Eyeballs are eyeballs. Views are views.

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“Two pounds down since your last weigh-in.”

I exhaled and felt the pride manifest as a goofy grin across my face. I high-fived my mom and aunt, and we made our way into the meeting.

These days, it would be a crime to take an eighth grader to Weight Watchers. But in the early aughts, it was an absolute sin to be thirteen and weigh more than 110 pounds. It was the age of everything low-fat, Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, and 100-calorie packs. This was when heroin-chic-Nicole-Richie-scary-skinny was in, and everybody was getting stupid thin.

Thankfully, we all eventually came to our senses, and with the rise of social media, more people started talking about eating disorders. Then the Kardashians came on the scene, and it became very cool to be curvy for a bit. Of course, that came with its own societal issues like unattainable hourglass dimensions and dangerous BBLs. I’m not sure what’s worse, starving to death or flying to a third world country to get the fat sucked out of your belly and into your ass?

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And when curvy/body acceptance became the norm, it wasn’t long before the pendulum swung the complete other way… out into another dimension.

We called this period of time “healthy at any size.” Any size? Yes, ANY size. Even if you were 600 pounds? It’s fine! You can be healthy! And diet culture is toxic, didn’t you know? And God forbid you count your calories. You’re an idiot. Don’t like the size of your body? You’re perpetuating diet culture.

And of course it was the thin women, the ones who were never overweight a day in their lives, berating anyone who wanted to fit into smaller pants.

Fast forward to 2025 and I have whiplash. Because everyone around me is emaciated and losing twenty-five pounds a month. And their hair is falling out and they literally look ill, and we’re not allowed to talk about it. We’re not allowed to talk about how absolutely insane and scary it is.

I see the looks of pity when I tell people I’ve only lost thirty-ish pounds via a calorie deficit. And gasp!! It’s taken me a whole year. I can practically hear their thoughts bitch, just go on Ozempic.

But I don’t. Fucking. Want. To.

I’m sorry, but I don’t buy this “I can’t lose weight” bullshit. But I have PCOS, but I tried everything, but my cOrTiSoL, but my gut is inflamed, but but but… spare me, please. Have you stopped to consider that you, too, just have whiplash? That the pressure to be skinny AF is real and it would take so long to lose the weight, it’ll be out of style again?

Is it possible that you are also just so burnt out from the conflicting weight-loss advice over the last twenty years that when a miracle drug came along, you just wanted to… don’t hate me… take the easy way out?

Because after the 2000s low-fat phase came the low-carb, then the no-carb, then the clean eating, then the raw vegan, the non-GMO, the gut-health craze, the intuitive eating, followed by the carnivore diet. Millennials are all walking around doing mental gymnastics over what to have for lunch due to crippling orthorexia.

And before you accuse me of judging you, how could I? How could I judge anyone who is probably just like me, who has been thinking about their weight and food and everything that goes into their body their entire lives?

I don’t blame you, babe, for taking meds as the way to finally get the body that you want. But we’re allowed to talk about it. I’m allowed to not be treated like an idiot. It’s scary how skinny people are right now and how skinny some of these celebrities are right now.

And of course, the fat girls are always gonna be gaslit.

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PS — If this was triggering, I get it. And, truly, I do not judge anyone for being on a GLP-1. I’m not just saying that, I just think things are inching toward scary right now. Love u!

I like attention, so be sure to follow me on TikTok or Instagram.

This was the shit that would come out of my mouth when I was a single twenty-something. In my smug little brain, I thought I was special (I mean, I am special, but that’s irrelevant here). I felt that other girls around me were in relationships because they were basic. “Simpletons” is what a friend of mine called them. But not me. I was just so different and cool. Guys were scared by different and cool. They wanted girls who bake sourdough and shop at Lilly Pulitzer. Those girls don’t have brains like me, right?

Wrong.

Without needing a lobotomy or becoming a Swiftie, I met an amazing man. I was wearing a distressed Led Zeppelin tee and a leather skirt. I was taking shots of tequila and dragged him outside the club while I smoked cigarettes. I married the dude.

Have I become a Simpleton, or was it just my time to meet the right guy?

Lately, there’s been this common sentiment among single women in their 30s that I just can’t quite escape on my TikTok FYP. It’s the idea that if you’re single and everyone else around you is partnered up, then it must be because your standards are so much higher than everyone else’s. It’s because all the other women around you are mindless, boring, easy women who settle for the first guy that looks at them.

And while yeah, I’m sure that’s the case for some people, I can’t help but feel like single women in their 30s are on their way to becoming the next incel. But instead of hating men, they also hate women.

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In a past life, I became a dating coach. And when I say “in a past life,” I actually mean, like… three years ago. Societal conditioning had me believe that I cracked some code. That I did something “right.” I was hopeless in the love department until I wasn’t, and everyone around me commented on what a beautiful relationship I had. So I did what I do best… tried to monetize it! I’d hop on TikTok to teach women how to finally attract the man of their dreams. I believed that if you were single and didn’t want to be, then you had to be doing something wrong.

And sometimes that’s the case. Maybe you’re not putting yourself out there, or your bad-boy “type” is holding you back. Maybe you’re emotionally unavailable, so you’re attracting emotionally unavailable guys.

But then I sat back and really reflected on things, and I couldn’t help but call bullshit on myself. Spoiler alert: I’m no longer a dating coach.

You see, I think that being partnered up is not something that anyone is entitled to. Just like being born with great tits or rich parents, I think finding a good partner is often about luck. Sure, you can increase your chances of finding the right person by raising your standards, honing in on your aesthetic, and putting yourself out there. But sometimes it’s just about being at the right place at the right time.

We’re all about girl power and hyping up other women, until it comes to the area of relationships. Maybe your high school frenemy didn’t settle. Maybe her standards aren’t lower than yours. Maybe, and I’m sorry if I sound super woo-woo here, she was just destined to find success in a relationship, and you incarnated into your meat sack to find success in your career.

Maybe your standards aren’t sOoOoOo high, and you’re not “too intimidating.” Maybe your breath smells or something! Maybe you’re super annoying. Maybe you talk over people or are condescending. But maybe, MOST LIKELY, you’re perfect, and it’s just not your time. You have simply not found your person yet. It’s not that deep.

And no, having a boyfriend is not embarrassing. Don’t even get me started on that one. Relationship statuses are not trends.

So while I didn’t become a Simpleton to find a husband, I did change one tiny thing. I bought some sage, cleansed my whack-ass energy, and stopped being a hater. I started third-wheeling a bit more. I got to know my friends’ partners and became friends with them too. Most of them are like brothers to me. I never missed a moment to express joy for my friends and their happiness.

Unlike famous party girls, growing up in Staten Island didn’t lend itself to ultra-glamorous partying. Nights at New York City’s hottest clubs were far and few between, so I definitely wasn’t rubbing elbows with the Olsen twins or anything like that. Yeah, you’re technically in New York City, but The Island is a hike from Manhattan. You couldn’t pay me enough to hop on the godforsaken ferry in six-inch Jeffrey Campbell knock-offs and a crop top in the winter. So local dives and Guido hotspots were the move until summer, when it was finally time to head “down the shore.”

Being at the Jersey Shore with my girlfriends was better than the MTV show. We spent our first summer living in a house next to D’Jais, which was the superior Jersey Shore club (and where it should’ve been filmed). We’d sing and dance until the bar closed down, followed by late-night mac and cheese bites and a continued dance party at our house. Every Thursday night felt like Christmas because weekends at the shore were from Thursday to Monday. Getting in the car after work, I’d be buzzing with energy in anticipation of what was ahead. But by Monday, the switch would flip. I’d be hangxiety-riddled, replaying every bad thing I did that weekend as I drove up the Garden State Parkway back to my job at the MAC counter.

It wasn’t all dance parties and drunk munchies, you see. While I look back fondly on my twenties, I also remember the bad decisions and dark moments. Like spending half of my night at the bars in a bathroom stall with three girlfriends and a rolled-up dollar bill. Or that one night our creepy neighbor, the fat-fuck DJ, followed me home as I stumbled down the street and proceeded to take advantage of me. I’m horrified by the thousands of drunk texts sent to boys who didn’t love me and the gallons of tears I cried when they’d hit on my friends.

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Being a party girl is equally fun and scary. My core group of girlfriends, who I am still super close with, are fun with a capital F, but I had to be the wildest one of the bunch during those times. Some would dabble in substances, pull all-nighters, and hook up with the occasional sleazy guy. I’d do all that and then some. (I blame it on my daddy issues and a controlling ex-boyfriend.)

I was in Staten Island this month for my cousin’s wedding. My best friend generously offered to host us for the weekend, and I was beyond excited to spend some time lounging, gossiping, and catching up with one of my favorite people. I can’t remember the last time we went out to dinner, so we decided to hit the Guido hotspots town. Not surprisingly, a mini-rager was had. The next night was the highly anticipated ✨ Big Gay Italian Wedding 🌈, where I binge-drank Hugo spritzes while shaking my ass to Gaga and bumming smokes off my stepdad. By the time Sunday morning came, the booze was seeping out of my pores, and I could still taste cigarettes on my tongue despite brushing my teeth. The old but familiar hangxiety flooded in, along with memories of my party-girl past.

Listen, it wasn’t all bad. If it wasn’t for being a party girl, I wouldn’t have met my husband at that boozy brunch and proceeded to have what I thought would be a one-night stand. I wouldn’t have gone on girls’ trips where I made memories and kissed British boys. And I wouldn’t have had some of the deepest heart-to-heart conversations at 4 a.m. around the patio table of a rundown Point Pleasant Beach house.

I always say that people my age, give or take a few years, were robbed of their last few party years during COVID. Like we had one or two more years left, and they were abruptly taken away from us. Between that and then moving to Florida, where my social circle is pretty much nonexistent, I didn’t realize how drastically my lifestyle has changed.

Now I drink alcohol once every other month, I’ve never bought a pack of cigarettes while I’ve lived here, and I’m asleep most nights by 10:30 p.m. I whine from time to time about my lack of social life and level of boredom, but it’s peaceful, it’s healthy, and I like it this way.

But if you ever want to hit me up for a few dirty martinis and Marlboro Menthol Lites… I’m game.

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If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and TikTok @kristina_nasti

On the day after Thanksgiving last year, I woke up two pounds heavier than I’d been the day before. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t spiral.

Earlier that week, something just clicked. I knew it was time to finally lose weight, and not like how I’ve lost weight in the past by going on some crash diet, losing ten pounds in two weeks, and instantly gaining back twenty. No, this time I was going to lose it slowly, sustainably, and keep it off for good.

So when Thanksgiving came around, only two days after beginning a new nutrition program, I didn’t vow to “be good,” nor did I binge on everything in sight with the intention of restricting again on Monday. I ate what I really enjoyed, stopped when I was full, said no to leftovers, and went back to my plan the next day.

I continued to enjoy my birthday, Christmas Eve and Day, and New Year’s Eve while still losing weight. It’s been eleven months since then. I’m down twenty-five pounds, and while I’m proud of myself for slowly and naturally losing some weight, I’m ready to kick things up a notch.

We all know that Halloween through New Year’s Day can become a bit of a free-for-all shit show. It’s a delusional time when calories don’t count and somehow eating twenty fun-size candy bars feels better than eating one full-size bar. Every week at the office, there’s another party and a new box of pastries to avoid eye contact with.

By January 1, you’ve eaten so much crap that your pants don’t fit and you have more pimples than a teenager, so you resort to manically vision boarding while listening to biohacking bro podcasts. THIS WILL BE MY YEAR.

We can do better than that, babe.

This is the part where I’m going to ask you to be an adult and use discernment. I shouldn’t have to tell you I’m not a dietitian, doctor, or nutritionist, but in case you need the reminder, here it is: I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I’m just telling you what’s worked for me and what I’m planning to do in case you want to join me.

Get in, losers. We’re doing 75 Real.

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We’ve all heard of 75 Hard, with its strict and rigid guidelines that most people abandon within the first week. There have been TikTok iterations like 75 Soft and 75 Hotter. But what I’m proposing is a seventy-five-day plan that’s actually realistic and meant to lead you into a lifestyle change. That’s why we’re starting on some random day in November instead of trying to get skinny by summer or waiting until the new year. We’re doing a full-on pattern interrupt because, if you’re anything like me, you’re going insane repeating the same toxic diet-culture bullshit you’ve been stuck in since 2006.

I’m starting on Monday, November 3, and the last day will be January 16, but feel free to start tomorrow or even Thursday. Remember, we’re breaking patterns here.

The Guidelines

Follow a nutrition plan.
This could be a calorie deficit, elimination diet, macro tracking, Mediterranean-style eating, or just logging your food consistently. When I first started, I did the animal-based diet paired with a calorie deficit (don’t @ me, I know Paul Saladino is controversial). I love eating meat, dairy, eggs, and fruit, so I was excited to eat foods I love, and eliminating other foods made it easier to stay in a deficit. Eventually, I transitioned into solely following a calorie deficit. That’s just what worked for me, so do you, girlfriend.

Drink a fuck ton of water.
Like 80–100 oz. I won’t patronize you by telling you to put lemon in it as if that will make it less annoying. It won’t. Just be a good girl and drink the water. It’s good for you.

Take your damn supplements.
Whatever they are, we all need different ones. But I know you have a bottle of magnesium sitting in your cabinet that you keep forgetting to take. Get a cute pill box, set an alarm on your phone, and do what you gotta do to get those bad boys down.

Move your body every damn day.
It doesn’t have to be intense. Dance, do yoga, lift some weights, ask your mom for the old Tae Bo DVDs. Walking is queen. Just move your body for 20–30 minutes a day, minimum.

Enjoy every holiday, event, and occasion… with a game plan.
Choose what you really want and plan in advance when you can. No, you don’t have to be the weirdo microwaving chicken and broccoli in the office kitchen. Have the pizza and baby hotdogs if that’s what you really want. But the shitty store-bought cookies that are just kinda sitting there? Maybe skip those.

Limit alcohol and sugary drinks.
I get it, my family drives me to drink too. But maybe a breathing exercise in the bathroom will do the trick instead? Aim for a 3-4 drinks max at events and holidays, and skip sugary drinks altogether. Now’s the time to let that Diet Coke addiction shine.

Stop doom-scrolling.
You’re not going to find happiness at the bottom of someone else’s Ralph Lauren-inspired Amazon Christmas Decoration Haul. Replace scrolling with something actually relaxing, like journaling, reading, meditating, or watching Christmas movies. Limit scrolling to when you’re on the toilet. Don’t act like you don’t do that. We all do.

Prioritize sleep.
Try to get 7–8 hours every night. Lack of sleep leads to poor decision-making, like texting your ex or eating an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers.

Don’t explain yourself.
You don’t need to tell anyone you’re “on a diet” or “trying to be good.” Just be that bitch. No explanation necessary.

Optional (and slightly controversial): weigh yourself every single day.
If weightloss is not your goal and you tend to fixate, you might want to skip but it’s been weirdly liberating for me. I used to avoid the scale every time I ate “bad.” I didn’t want to face the damage I’d done. Now that I weigh myself daily, I know exactly what foods bloat me, and the scale always balances out after a day or two. Plus, I pay attention to my weekly average, which helps account for hormonal changes throughout the month.

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If you plan to join me, lmk in the comments! And to make things easier, I’ve created a Notion tracker here.

Hey girls (and gays. I assume no one else is reading this, right?),

The thing that I love most about myself is also the thing that I’m most insecure about, and that’s my ability to change my mind. To switch lanes, burn my life down, and rebuild a new one very regularly.

I’m almost 35 and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I know I want to create. I know I don’t want to work a 9–5. I know I want freedom and flexibility and I want to be really fucking rich… eventually. If you give me a life rule, I’m most definitely going to break it. I don’t care that I should own a house by now or have more money in retirement. I don’t care that my resumé doesn’t make any sense or that I don’t have a Real Job.

And yeah, I like this about myself. I like that societal pressure doesn’t usually weigh on me or sway my decisions too much. But lately, I am starting to feel a little weighed down. I wish I were the type of person who could weigh the pros and cons, make decisions based on research, and have a 10-year plan. Shit, I wish I had a six-month plan.

But I need to try. I need to fail. I need to do things that scare me and embarrass me and probably make people in my life talk behind my back or speculate about me. What’s this bitch up to now? I wish I were a little more responsible and wanted a simpler, regular life. But I don’t.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know that I am a bit of a Disney adult. I moved closer to the Florida parks earlier this summer and dipped my toe into posting Disney content, only to find out that it wasn’t for me. For a while, I thought I had finally found my groove. I was receiving a lot of great feedback, and I was being more consistent in my creative pursuits than I have been in a while. But the last time I went to Epcot, I decided not to film, and I was relieved. And I realized that my happy place (drinking around the World Showcase) should not be accompanied by a fucking tripod.

In one way or another, I’ve been pursuing a career in social media since 2018, and I have nothing to show for it. I’ve gone viral a few times. I’ve made a couple of bucks. But it hasn’t provided the career I thought it would. Social media is making me increasingly anxious. It’s adding an increasing amount of pressure on me, and I’m kind of over it. I’ve posted videos that have had millions of views, and felt empty inside. The only time I feel connected to my purpose or accomplished is when I hit publish on Substack. And I have less than 300 subscribers!

But I’m sad to admit it’s the thing I’ve been giving the least amount of attention to lately. It’s the thing I avoid the most. Which means it’s probably the thing I need the most. If I weren’t a freelance social media manager, I would probably delete the apps altogether. I’m thinking of logging off my personal accounts for a while and seeing if the anxiety and pressure subside.

There’s so much I want to share. There are so many reflections I have about life, but it just doesn’t seem to want to come out right, and that’s okay for now. I’ll sit in this period of reflection.

I’m realizing that the things I need to be focused on right now are cleaning house things. Like actually having a clean and organized home, finally finishing decorating our new apartment. Hunkering down and getting back on my weight loss journey because it’s been stalled for a few months. Getting back into my meditation practice and finally finishing The Artist’s Way. These are the things that matter most right now. I’m just in a season of wanting to feel cozy and grounded and creative.

I always wanted to be kind of famous, and I do think that’s a trauma response. I think people who don’t feel seen or understood as kids look for that sort of attention as adults. And now with social media, anybody can become famous overnight, and I think I might need to let that go.

For now, I’m holding onto the belief that I can still live a creative, flexible, freedom-based life outside of traditional social media.

Love you,

Kristina

PS — Your girl is trying to get her bag while keeping a flexible schedule. If you or anyone you know is looking for a creative virtual assistant or social/content support, I’m currently open to taking on one or two new clients. DM me or email me at kristina@readcheeky.com.

I’ve spent most of this week indoors, only stepping outside for necessities like errands, walks, and yoga. This is the first week since June that I haven’t gone to Disney, and it’s got me thinking that most Americans spend their weeks like this, not leaving their homes for days at a time. It’s like, unless you live in a major city and work in an office, you spend most of your time working from the couch, wearing stained sweatpants and a faded t-shirt you got from a bachelorette party.

In my twenties, I was out four to six nights a week. After work, nearly every night, I’d grab dinner or drinks with friends. But socializing in your mid-thirties is a strange thing. You either have kids and your life revolves around their sleep, school, and activity schedules, or, if you’re like me, you don’t have kids yet but everyone around you does. Social gatherings are less let’s get a drink tonight and more the baby goes to bed by 7:30, so we have to start our bedtime routine at 6:30, which means I’m only free until 6.

My early thirties, COVID, and my move to Florida collided, so for a while I couldn’t pinpoint why my social life turned bland. Pre-pandemic I saw my girlfriends every week, but when we emerged from the depths of Netflix binges and banana bread mayhem, things started to rapidly change. Someone’s been pregnant every year since, and the friend group has grown by eight babies. Moving away didn’t help the situation, but I suspect my social life would’ve changed regardless of distance.

I blame the lack of third spaces and this country’s obsession with kid-centric activities. How I yearn for British pub culture in America. Imagine living in a village where you can pop into the pub on your way home from work, or with your baby to meet your friends for an hour before bedtime. No militaristic planning or Google calendars necessary.

The lack of spontaneity is what scares me the most about becoming a mother one day. The naptimes, the meal planning, the extracurriculars. The thought of spending my weekends on a soccer field or at dance competitions makes me want to off myself. And sleep training? We have to train kids? To sleep?!

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I’m 77 days away from my 35th birthday and can hear my ovaries screaming at me, Bitch, what are you waiting for? To take one more trip. To finally get in shape. To learn to speak Italian. To enjoy the alone time with my husband while I still can. Because I’ve heard it’s all over when a kid comes along.

Or is it? Maybe I’m a victim of motherhood fear mongering, this collective idea that life is over when you have children. That being a mom means putting everything else in your life on hold indefinitely. But when I tune out the noise and consider what motherhood might look like on my terms, it’s not so bad. Traveling the world. Dance parties in the kitchen. Magic Kingdom fireworks on Friday nights.

Joe and I finally having our third musketeer, because propaganda I’m not falling for? Having more than one. And I know this sounds delusional to most people with children. You’ll see when you have kids. But I think the key to life going your way is being delusional.

I don’t do anything by the book now, so why would I start when I have a kid?

Love ya,
Kristina

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and TikTok @kristina_nasti

Black cat energy.

I’ve decided to become a cunt, or at least a little cunty. Nothing bad happened, but I’m more of a golden retriever than I’d like to be. I wouldn’t call myself a pushover. I have healthy boundaries, and I’m no stranger to tough conversations. I’m just overly friendly, sometimes to the point where I suspect it comes across as fake. That energy isn’t always reciprocated, which often leaves me feeling rejected or offended. I’m extremely diplomatic and difficult to argue with, which is probably why I don’t end up in many arguments at all. Confrontation, even when I’m not directly involved, makes me anxious. And honestly, constantly measuring and crafting every word is exhausting.

I’m tired. I’m ready to be a black cat. I’ve been heavily inspired by Slavic and Parisian women on TikTok. Their discernment radiates a kind of sexy cuntiness I’d like to embody. I suspect this golden retriever syndrome might be a millennial issue. We were raised in toxic-positivity culture. My parents had me watch The Secret in high school, and I was conditioned to believe that every mean or ugly word would magically manifest into a mean or ugly life. Plus, our generation had to compensate for the Karens who came before us. I will never ask to speak to your manager.

Becoming a cunt doesn’t mean turning into Cruella de Vil. I won’t be picking fights out of thin air or reaching for low-hanging fruit, like pointing out someone’s cankles. But I do plan on being more selective and less pick-me about who gets my attention. I’m steering clear of people with jealous, weirdo behavior. And if you piss me off, I’ll write about you in my burn book. I’ll say the meanest, ugliest things that come to mind because it feels damn good to get them out of my system, and then I’ll move on with my life.

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Also, I’ll be bringing back the smudgiest, sluttiest black eyeliner, because it feels appropriate.

You’re not the boss of me.

After years of thinking everyone but me knows what’s best for me, I’m finally so rooted in my own intuition that you can’t tell me shit. Every time I’ve outsourced my power or decision-making, every time I thought I needed a mentor or more education, every time I followed the rules, it was the wrong thing to do. So when I see people arguing in comment sections online or spewing cookie-cutter advice, I can’t help but roll my eyes. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but your intuition might be right. Yes, even about the most controversial things, you know what’s best for you. Whether it’s quitting your job to join the circus, letting your kids have screen time, or realizing that the girl who gives you a pit in your stomach really is just a jealous weirdo, you’re probably right.

Telling people, women especially, to ignore their intuition? That’s the fucking patriarchy. It’s giving misogyny. It’s giving “I don’t mind my own business.” Like, god forbid you don’t trust everything you hear on the news or learn in school to guide you in the right direction.

Virality is over-hyped.

I had a Substack note go “viral” this week. It’s cool, I guess, but I’ve gone viral enough times on social media to know it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. If you went to my TikTok account right now, you’d see 74,000 followers. You might look at that number and assume I make a living from social media. But in the last year, I’ve only made $105 from the TikTok Creator Rewards Program.

My follower count is the result of maybe five to ten viral videos over the last five years. At one point, I had a silly video reach 11,000,000 views in 48 hours, which grew my account by 50,000 followers. I thought I had made it and would never need to work again. For a while, it was cool. I was asked to be on podcasts, gained a bunch of new leads on my email list, and was even asked to audition for a reality show. But over time, the views and followers dwindled, and now I have all these people following me who aren’t super invested.

When you go viral, you’re appealing to everyone. So even though my viral note had over 30k impressions and gained me 32 new free subscribers, the newsletter that followed only had 181 views. I’m sorry to report that the cliché is true: slow and steady really does win the race. Consistency beats out virality every single time.

PS: If you’re a new subscriber reading this, you better not unsubscribe now. I will write about you in my burn book.

Life lately…

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and TikTok @kristina_nasti

If you told me 10 years ago that I’d leave New York City for Central Florida, I would’ve politely told you to go fuck yourself.

When I was little, my mom would take us to work with her a lot. Excitement filled my body as we climbed the steps of the Union Square station, looking forward to the breakfast I only ever ate in the city: a plain toasted bagel with so much butter it would seep out of the brown paper bag, and a Yoo-hoo to wash it down. I fell in love with the chaos, the smells, and the grime of The Village. It felt more like home to me than our Bensonhurst apartment did. I’d dream of my future as an adult living in the city and swore to my mother that I’d someday make it happen.

As I grew older, the dream felt increasingly real. Going to school in Soho, doing makeup for Broadway Bares, watching the Rangers play at MSG more times than I can count. Even the less glamorous moments (like sweating on a packed express bus to Staten Island or dodging catcalls from sleazy construction workers) held a strange kind of nostalgia. It was all part of the New York experience.

When my parents decided to move to Florida for work, my mom would beg me to follow. “Maybe if you were going somewhere cool like Miami,” I’d joke. After spending COVID indoors, I was so excited to get to Florida that I hadn’t stopped to realize I was leaving my childhood dreams behind.

The week before we made our move, my husband and I headed to our favorite restaurant in Hoboken. We were running early, as usual, and decided to go for one last walk along Sinatra Drive. The views of New York City from Hudson County, New Jersey, are worth more than living in the city itself, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

The Hoboken waterfront was the backdrop to our first year together, back when things were easier. Before pandemics and furloughs and dying parents. Back when our biggest worry was where to eat dinner that night. Only three years had passed, yet I felt so much older.

As we approached the pier where we’d shared our first-date kiss, a lump formed in my throat. Two kids in love, no idea what was ahead of them.

The February wind stung my cheeks as I avoided eye contact with the Manhattan skyline. It hurt too much to look at it. I could practically hear the city screaming at me across the Hudson River. That’s it? You just gave up?

And Frankie himself, singing: If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.

But I… didn’t make it.

Sitting in my notes app is a link to apply to be on the first non-celebrity season of The Traitors. I’m going to assume this is a safe space and admit that there’s a part of me that wants to be ✨famous✨. I know this must be childhood trauma speaking, and I should probably consult a therapist, but I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life without more than the average amount of attention.

Once, when I was going viral on TikTok, I was contacted by a casting agency and auditioned to be on the dating coach equivalent of Selling Sunset. I saw the rest of my life flash before my eyes: Skinny Tea partnerships, red carpet events, exes leaking my nudes to deuxmoi. But after not hearing back, and the show probably not getting greenlit, the excitement faded and I kind of forgot about it.

Until recently.

I don’t watch much reality TV or competition shows. But I’m obsessed with The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives and The Traitors. Since I’m not Mormon and don’t live in Utah, The Traitors is my only option.

So, what’s holding me back? My teeth, my arm fat, my level-headedness, and my non-confrontational disposition. I think I’m too fat, too ugly, and too boring to be on TV. On one hand, I’m extroverted and loud and unashamed. But on the other hand, I’m too nice and unemotional to fight with other grown adults on TV.

I’m also the worst liar known to man, so if they cast me as one of the traitors, I’d be discovered immediately and voted off the first night.

Oh, and the bugs!! I don’t know why they insist on bringing a Fear Factor-like quality to this show, but I’m not sure I can handle some of the actual challenges.

But most of all, I don’t know if I can handle the viewers. If someone disagrees with me on TikTok, it sends me into a rage. When I receive a mean comment, I want to quit social media and go live off the grid. How would I ever handle Susie from Arkansas commenting on my outfit choices?

I’ve decided that I will no longer accept food or restaurant recommendations from just anyone.

When I lived in New York, I could trust almost anyone with a restaurant recommendation. But in Florida? Hellll no. Almost every restaurant we go to with raving reviews ends up being meh.

Our most recent food-fail was on our family vacation. In all fairness, we were on a cruise, so the food was bound to be okay at best. I’ve found that avid cruise-goers value quantity over quality, so as long as they can eat themselves into a food coma, they’re happy. I wasn’t expecting Michelin-star restaurants, but the reality was so much worse. I was assured by multiple people (Floridians) that the food was great, so I went in with higher expectations than usual.

In the four short days we were on this ship, I spit food out of my mouth on multiple occasions. I could only describe the pizza as gelatinous, because there was a layer of solidified fat over the entire slice. Then there was the pasta carbonara, which should’ve really been called pasta maionese.

After this experience, I am now fully convinced that Central Florida natives do not have functioning taste buds. Maybe it’s all the sulfur in the water.

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So, going forward, I will now only trust food recommendations from people who meet 2 out of the 3 following criteria:

1. You must have spent a significant amount of time in or close to a major city. Orlando doesn’t count. There is good food here if you know where to find it, but people who haven’t lived near a major city do not know good food. If you think a Pub Sub is the pinnacle of sandwiches, then you need a reality check. It’s not your fault that you’ve never been to a hole-in-the-wall Italian deli with real mozzarella and bread so good you don’t need to toast it.

2. Your lineage must be more Ellis Island vibes than Mayflower vibes. You cannot be white-white. If anyone older than your great-grandparents was born in America, just no. There needs to be a thread of the old country running through your family kitchens.

3. You are well-traveled. Cruises and all-inclusive resorts don’t count. You don’t have to be an international jet-setter. This can be domestic trips to major cities.

Honorable mention: You like spice and Indian food. If you are afraid to eat Indian food, then I assume you think mayo is too spicy and you only do it missionary.

Hear me out… drunk cigarette packs. Just four in a pack, rather than twenty.

I think cigarettes are having a comeback in the best way. Before the poop-food cruise, I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in almost two years. I don’t drink as often as I used to, and these days, you can’t bum a cig to save your life. You step outside of a bar and everyone’s sucking on an electronic device. I swear these vapes keep getting larger. I saw a guy recently smoking a vape that was the size of an electric toothbrush. I have vibrators smaller than some of these things. It’s getting out of control.

I swiped two cheeky little cigs off my stepdad after a few Hugo Spritzes (the drinks were the saving grace of the cruise), and all I could think about was how many people were outside smoking cigarettes.

I understand how toxic this sounds, but there’s no way vaping is better for you. If we could all agree to only smoke a few drunk cigs a handful of times a year, I think we’d all be in a better place

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti

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Vibe Check

I’ve always been chronically online, an early adopter of social media. I’ve never been afraid of putting myself out there: blogging about my high school boyfriend on MySpace, posting makeup tutorials on YouTube, and being the first of my millennial friend group to join TikTok. Aside from a few viral videos, I was never very successful in my social media pursuits. What starts as a fun hobby almost always turns into me being consumed by algorithms and analytics. My voice and authenticity get drowned out by the noise of comparison.

I’ve been on Substack for about a year. When I first started, the words couldn’t get onto the page quickly enough. I forced myself to space out my posts so I didn’t spam my tiny subscriber list. But lately, I feel old patterns creeping up. I’m a college dropout. I barely got through high school. Ya know, “if you only applied yourself” and all that. So when I read the work of my Substack peers, I want to crawl into a ball and hide.

How could I ever compare?

I’m not sure if it’s just comparison holding me back, though. There’s part of me that’s afraid to see what might come out if I really try.

I’m afraid for my mother to know the depth of my anger, for my husband to think I’m a slut, and for my friends to realize how different I am from them. I’m afraid of the memories and the pain and the regret to rear its ugly head.

The desire to build an audience, a brand, and to monetize is also holding me back. This was supposed to be a silly little Substack. I was supposed to be one of the Carries on here. Keep it light and silly and not too opinion-y. But sometimes I want to go deeper, and I shouldn’t be concerned with branding when I barely have 200 subscribers.

2025 has been the year of breaking cycles, breaking habits. So here I am, refusing to give it up, refusing to pivot at every inconvenience, refusing to compare myself to you MFA-having ass bitches.

Anyway…

Welcome to The Cheek. My weekly-ish, sometimes snarky newsletter, typically fueled by TikTok brainrot. Here I share my curated clicks, fav products, how I’m getting my shit together (The G.Y.S.T.), and obviously my hot takes. Enjoy.

Curated Clicks

Read: I re-discovered a sample of The Club by Ellery Lloyd that I had downloaded on my Kindle. It’s a murder mystery and involves rich people, so it’s exactly the type of thing I need after ditching the ballsack brothers book (IYKYK). It’s a Reese’s Book Club pick, and I like it so far. I’ll keep you posted.

Watch: Joe and I are re-watching Entourage. I’m embarrassed to admit this is my fourth re-watch. It’s my favorite show, and I’m genuinely worried about how someone might psychoanalyze that. Internalized misogyny? Maybe. Deep, embarrassing desire to be famous? Probably.

Listen: This classical music playlist is the only thing that I can listen to while I’m working. I don’t know shit about shit when it comes to classical music. Can’t name composers or songs or any of that. I can just tell you that I like it and it’s relaxing. So, enjoy.

Scroll: What I’m about to share with you is something my husband and I lovingly refer to as a “crack head account.” And no, I don’t mean an account of literal crackheads. A crack head account is any social media page that taps into niche nostalgia from a problematic period of your life. Think People of Walmart type vibes.

For me, that account is @drunkcigsdontcount on Instagram. I love cigarettes. I’ve only ever been a drunk/social smoker, though I haven’t touched one since November 2023. I tried my first cigarette at a sleepover when I was eleven (!!!), and if they weren’t so bad for you, I’d smoke ’em all the time.

The G.Y.S.T.

I went to hot yoga at 6:15 AM Monday through Thursday this past week. Am I… better than everyone?

Have you also been personally victimized by FeMiNiNe eNeRgY content? While I very much believe in feminine energy, yin and yang, and all that, I also think we’ve gotten a little too soft in our attempt to become softer.

Waking up early and getting after it really is all it’s cracked up to be.

I’m not saying you need to wake up at the crack of dawn to be a productive and healthy member of society, but maybe… do the thing you keep saying you’re gonna do.

Treat yo’ self.

Drink a dirty soda. Trust me.

I was inspired to try Swig after watching Secret Lives of Mormon Wives on Hulu. Mormons don’t drink coffee, so instead, they drink dirty sodas. Basically, whatever soda you like, plus syrups, creams, and toppings.

I went with Diet Coke, sugar-free coconut syrup, sugar-free raspberry syrup, and coconut cream. I wanted to hate it. But it was delightful.

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If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti

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Vibe Check

When I first moved to Florida, I thought the winter sun would miraculously heal my childhood trauma, food noise, and work-life imbalance. I pictured early morning walks followed by meditating under the rising sun. I convinced myself I’d somehow lose tons of weight without trying (because it was obviously the stress and cOrTiSoL making me gain weight and not the fact that I just couldn’t stop eating).

This type of delusion is what makes Floridians hate us New York transplants.

What actually happened was worse. The close proximity to family rehashed some anxious childhood memories. The oppressive heat paired with some minor depression kept me pretty inactive. I gained 15 more pounds, that I wouldn’t begin to lose for another 3 years. My failed dream of starting an online coaching business, set me back financially and professionally. My only saving grace was marrying a devoted and supportive man.

I wish I could say there was a specific thing that made everything click. Maybe it was deciding to quit the coaching cult industry. Maybe it was learning Human Design. Maybe I just got so sick of my own bullshit that the pendulum finally had no choice but to swing the other way. But things started to look up.

I’m working and creating more, moving my body and getting stronger. And moving to our new place was the icing on the cake. I’ve stopped caring about what people think, for real, and have been sharing Disney content on TikTok and Reels. I’ve been doing hot power yoga at 6am most mornings. I’m very much feeling like THAT bitch.

Welcome to The Cheek. My weekly-ish, sometimes snarky newsletter, typically fueled by TikTok brainrot. Here I share my curated clicks, fav products, how I’m getting my shit together (The G.Y.S.T.), and obviously my hot takes. Enjoy.

Curated Clicks

Read: Too traumatized to read. We’re jumping back a few weeks in time to my smut journey. The people of BookTok were horrified to find out I started with Credence by Penelope Douglas. Let’s just say it is not beginner smut. I don’t think it’s for me, in general. And while I know we’re not supposed to kink-shame, I am deeply disturbed to find out that some of you are into borderline pedo-incest plotlines. After a chapter where I was forced to envision brothers’ nutsacks slapping together (sorry), I decided to call it quits—or take a long break, at the very least. I think I’ll go back to my tried and true domestic thrillers ( has the best recs).

Watch: The Buccaneers on AppleTV is underrated and I’ve been utterly surprised to find out that none of my friends and family watch it. It’s like Gossip Girl meets Bridgerton. Picture a group of rich, messy American girls shaking up stuffy British high society. Season 2 just started so go binge and report back!

Listen: Summer makes me miss being a drunk twenty-something at the Jersey Shore, so I’ve been listening to this D’Jais playlist a lot. In case you’re not a “BENNY” like me, you’ve probably never been to D’Jais in Belmar. It’s the only place on earth where I will gladly tolerate a sardine-can-like atmosphere, blasting electronic music, and sweaty guidos.

Scroll: Have we all seen the Prince Treatment Lady on TikTok? This Stepford wife-looking woman sent everyone into a tailspin when she shared what “princess treatment” looks like when dining out with her husband. If you’re thinking he opens her door, pulls out her chair, and lets her order two desserts, then you’re (1) normal and (2) wrong. The original video has been taken down, but basically, she does not speak to, look at, or acknowledge waitstaff or hostesses. In the video, she also discourages women from laughing, speaking too loudly, or talking unless they’re spoken to.

The G.Y.S.T.

If you’re not using Google Calendar to organize your entire life in the year of our Lord 2025, what are you even doing? Let’s make a pact, okay? It’s Sunday and it’s time to plan the week. Whip out your Google Calendar and time-block everything you plan to do this week. Start with all of your non-negotiable commitments. Work, meetings, etc. Then time-block all the things you say you don’t have time for but will miraculously have time for once you start doing this.

Need to do laundry? Time-block.

Meditation? Time-block.

Sex with your partner? Time-block.

I don’t care how obvious you think it is. Mother f*ckin time-block it. You can always remove things or rearrange your time-blocks. Thank me later.

Treat yo’ self.

I started using a few products from Beauty of Joseon, and the Ginseng Cleansing Oil is definitely my favorite. I’ve been double-cleansing and have tried various oil-based cleansers and balms, but this one trumps all of them. The price point is insane for the quality. (affiliate link)

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Submit your question to my advice column: complete the Google Form.

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Vibe Check

I don’t care about Sabrina Carpenter’s album cover and I don’t care about Sydney Sweeney’s bathwater and I don’t care that your favorite influencer didn’t share a poetic tweet about immigration to her Instagram story to show her allegiance.

I’m sick of people calling eachother nazis and blue-haired liberals and bad feminists.

I’m sick of fake outrage and using words on a screen in place of doing things that really move the needle. If you didn’t post about it on TikTok do you even care?

What are we even doing? The black squares didn’t help us last time.

I’m sorry, but the girl you follow for shoe recommendations is not a bad person because she took too long to speak out on a social issue. And when you crucify her for not being the perfect citizen, I can’t help but think you were waiting in the wings for her downfall and don’t actually care about the issue at hand.

Is it responsible to use your platform to raise awareness? Sure. But, that should be extra points. It’s still up to grown adults to read the news and follow accounts tailored to keep them informed.

Touch grass. Take a breath. Stop making it about you.

And for the record, even I’d drink Sydney Sweeney’s bathwater.

Welcome to The Cheek. My weekly-ish, sometimes snarky newsletter, typically fueled by TikTok brainrot. Here I share my curated clicks, fav products, how I’m getting my shit together (The G.Y.S.T.), and obviously my hot takes. Enjoy.

Curated Clicks

Read: I can’t believe I’ve never read this Anthony Bourdain article from 1999. What is it about that man that makes people feel like they knew him personally? In Don’t Eat Before Reading This, he detailed the little-known behind-the-scenes of working in a kitchen. If you’re weird about germy things, it might not be the read for you. But if you find yourself sweating while watching The Bear, then it’s perfect. And damn, that man could write.

Watch: Tires on Netflix is so fucking good. Think of it as the less-PC, grittier version of The Office. And Shane Gillis weirdly reminds me of every drunk hookup I had in my twenties (doofy, bro-ey, and of Irish descent). It’s a true belly-laugh show and an easy watch. It’s definitely more #fortheboys, but I enjoy it nonetheless.

Listen: I’ve been following Jordan Berman () on social media for a while and enjoy her clips of unbiased news coverage, so I decided to give her podcast a listen. I’m sorry, but I don’t trust traditional news anymore (I know, my tinfoil hat is showing). If you want straight-up news and prefer to rely on your own discernment, I can’t recommend it enough.

Scroll: This note

The G.Y.S.T.

A few years ago, I got an Apple Watch to track my steps… and discreetly check texts at work. I got so used to wearing it that I forgot to take it off once I was dressed for a night out. As we were about to head to some Jersey Shore bars, my friend yelled, “No one wants to fuck someone wearing an Apple Watch!” To her, it was an unforgivable fashion faux pas.

Little did we know, our other friend was in the next room getting in a quiet quickie with her boyfriend. He was wearing an Apple Watch and heard our conversation through the door. She told us about it months later.

Anyway, I’ve started wearing my Apple Watch again to track my steps, and the data is so motivating. This week, I’ve walked almost as many steps as I did on my UK trip. And the best news? I’m not having any less sex.

Treat yo’ self.

You deserve nail art. Yes, you. I don’t care if you’re 15 or 85. I want you to find some cute-ass nails on Pinterest, bring the photo to your nail tech, and rock that shit. Life is too short and everything feels so serious. Have a little fun and get some cutesy little designs on your nails.

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If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti

Submit your question to my advice column: complete the Google Form.

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Vibe Check

I will live in this one-bedroom apartment for the rest of my life if it means I never have to move again. Since 2018, I’ve moved five times. I’ve purged, donated, sold things to creepy people on Facebook Marketplace. And I’ve still managed to accumulate a bunch of shit. I’m not much of a shopper (I’d rather spend my money on experiences and dining), so I genuinely don’t know how I haven’t fully Marie Kondo’d my life by now.

When we first moved to Florida from New York, we moved in with my parents. Joe found a job while passively browsing LinkedIn during a visit, and we had to run down here quickly. Moving in with them was the best option. The plan was 3–6 months. We thought we’d live with them until we could buy a house (cries in millennial). We stayed for a year and then moved into a depressing apartment in their area for another two years. Let’s just say it was not the vibe.

Anyway, we’re finally in our new place. It’s forty-ish minutes away from my parents and only TWENTY (!!!!) minutes from most of the Disney parks. If you’re one of those people who judge grown adults for liking Disney World, then I assume you either a) have never been there as an adult or b) take yourself too seriously.

In addition to being twenty minutes from drinking around the world at Epcot, our apartment complex feels like a luxury resort. There are work-from-home spaces, a modern barn with tons of outdoor seating, and a sexy pool with plenty of lounge chairs overlooking a lake. I know that’s somewhat standard for Florida, but I’m in heaven.

In the past week, I’ve been the most productive and active I’ve been in a while. I’ve been creating content and writing in the co-working spaces, using the gym, and yesterday we lounged by the pool after shopping at the farmer’s market.

I’m happy here.

Welcome to The Cheek. My weekly-ish, sometimes snarky newsletter, typically fueled by TikTok brainrot. Here I share my curated clicks, fav products, how I’m getting my shit together (The G.Y.S.T.), and obviously my hot takes. Enjoy.

Curated Clicks

Read: I’ve decided I want to be a girl who reads smut. One of my favorite TikTok creators is this Australian girl who rates smutty books. I’ve never read anything she recommends (other than ACOTAR), so I decided to give it a whirl. She always brings up Credence by Penelope Douglas, so I’m diving head-first. I’m only a few chapters in, and no smut yet. But I’m kinda… nervous? I’m doing this as a kind of experiment-slash-research project. Will I become a sex-crazed maniac? Will my husband be sick of me humping his leg every day? It’s also possible that I’ll feel the ick if the author uses one of those weird romance novel phrases like “he entered my wet opening” (puke) or something equally horrifying. I’ll keep you posted.

Watch: My Lord and Savior, Stanley Tucci, has a new show, and it’s what dreams are made of. Tucci in Italy is out on Hulu, and it’s basically the same as his Max show, Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy (that one’s better, tbh). We’re trying to get to Italy next year, and I fully intend on basing our destination plans on the food, so I’m counting on my boy Stan to guide us in the right direction.

Listen: I’ll never pass up a pod about a scammer. eLiesabeth is about Elizabeth Teckenbrock, a TikToker who originally went viral for a video where she cried while baking her own birthday cake. You know, one of those videos where you set up the phone and then cry as if there were a hidden camera in your house catching you in a sad, candid moment.

Anyway, turns out the bitch is craaazy. She’s lied about having cancer multiple times, scammed a retired man out of half a mil, and told the internet that her ex is a Scientologist.

Scroll: This video about “Instagram Face.” One of the reasons I don’t have any injectables in my face is that I don’t want to look like everyone else. It’s one thing when hairstyles and eyebrow thickness change with trends, but it’s another thing entirely when you make permanent or semi-permanent changes to the structure of your face.

When you look around, everyone has the same nose, lips, cheeks, and ass. It’s like there are a few buckets you can fall into: Bieber, Kardashian, Hadid. Just choose one and run to your nearest med-spa.

The G.Y.S.T.

I’m getting hotter, healthier, and wealthier by the time I turn thirty-five in December. I posted a TikTok about it. But, here’s the list if you don’t wanna watch:

Treat yo’ self.

Speaking of being injectable-free, I started using my Frownies (affiliate link) again. I don’t know how more people don’t know about these things. You basically create a cast over your forehead with these little sticky guys and it trains your muscles to not move as much. I swear, you’ll even see the difference after one use. I wake up and my forehead looks like glass.

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If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti

Submit your question to my advice column: complete the Google Form.

ICYMI: I do Human Design readings. Think of it as the cooler, more science-y cousin of astrology. Human Design has completely changed my life and relationships. Curious? Let me read your chart.

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Vibe Check

I’ve spent more time around my family, immediate and extended, in the last month than I have in a long time. Coincidentally, I’ve had more tension headaches in the past month than I’ve ever had in my life. I realize how lucky I am to have healthy parents, a good relationship with my sister, and to have grown up with my grandparents. I feel guilty knowing that the thing that causes me the most stress is something that others would die to have. Family is funny like that.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved giving advice. I guess it’s why I write, why I was a dating coach, and why I love reading Human Design charts. I feel this innate responsibility to help everyone, fix everything. I’ve read enough self-help to know where this stems from. Eldest daughter of divorced parents, you know the deal. My mother has been referring to me as her consiglieri for as long as I can remember.

I am the family fixer. I try to prevent tension, fighting, and discomfort where I can. I mediate the arguments, lend an ear to vent to, and babysit the children. And while I’m loved and appreciated, I’m also a human punching bag. My advice is often ignored, yet the phone still rings.

It’s taken me thirty-four years, but I think I’ve finally realized that I’m the problem. I pick up the phone and change my plans. I care about people’s relationships more than they do. I’m so diplomatic and so afraid of confrontation that I project it onto others and try to prevent their arguments from happening.

So this week’s vibe check? DND.

Welcome to The Cheek. My weekly-ish, sometimes snarky newsletter, typically fueled by TikTok brainrot. Here I share my curated clicks, fav products, how I’m getting my shit together (The G.Y.S.T.), and obviously my hot takes. Enjoy.

Curated Clicks

Read: Happy Mother's Day to Actual Mothers by made me cry.
Before my nephew was born, I used to be staunchly childfree and a bit eye-rolly toward moms. Gross, I know. If you’ve been subscribed for a bit, then you know how that’s changed for me, and how amazed I am by mothers.

Yesterday, my husband and I ugly cried our way through our nephew’s pre-K graduation ceremony, so I truly don’t know how actual moms do it.

Watch: This video about out-of-touch influencers made me audibly gasp. One girl dropped something like $100K on bottle service during her birthday weekend. Meanwhile, I’m over here considering selling a kidney to cover my car payment.

Listen: I rediscovered this Spotify playlist I created a while back. Put it on when you want to feel like a hot French girl… even while cleaning your toilet.

Scroll: I stopped consuming true crime content a while back. It doesn’t exactly lend itself to good vibes, and I’ve found myself questioning the ethics of turning murder cases into entertainment. I tried to stay away, but these two cases have me fully relapsing. I’m talking endless scrolling and streaming Court TV during work hours.

The Idaho Four trial is three months away, and despite the gag order, new details seem to drop every week. The alleged killer, Bryan Kohberger, gives full-blown incel energy, and the entire case has me deeply creeped out.

Then there’s the retrial of Karen Read. She’s accused of hitting her Boston cop boyfriend with her car while drunk. The first trial ended in a mistrial, and everything about the case reeks of a police cover-up.

I’ve been blown away by the independent TikTok coverage. My go-tos have been @londonsnotebook for Idaho Four updates and @boozeybeauty for the Karen Read trial recaps. If you’re following either case, please DM me or drop a comment. I need someone to spiral with.

The G.Y.S.T.

I might be addicted to selling things on Facebook Marketplace. And when I say I’m selling things on Facebook Marketplace, I mean my husband is the one doing the selling, transporting, and then handing me the money. So I guess what I really like is… extra money?

We spent today packing, purging, and putting together a donation pile. Things are really moving along, and I’m starting to envision life in our new place.

Treat yo’ self.

This Mario Badescu Mint Lip Balm is everything I’ve been searching for. I’ve been wanting something in a squeeze tube that’s not too sticky, not too runny, and doesn’t need to be reapplied every hour on the hour. Plus, it’s like eight bucks.

Photo Dump

The Plug

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and Tiktok @kristina_nasti

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