You ever get that feeling like your stomach’s bottomed out… while you’re still chewing? Yeah, that’s me. Daily. Hourly, if we’re being honest. Name’s Tavra Burnstead—Bonanza-born, big-bellied, six-times-popped, and hungry as hell.

I wasn’t always like this. Used to be leaner. Meaner. Could fly three states without stopping, torch a hillside on a dare, and land with a smirk. Then came the babies. All six of ‘em. Back-to-back-to-back like clockwork. You ever watch your gut go from flat to full to “gods-help-me-she’s-still-growing”? Try that six times. Now I can barely button a blouse without hearing it scream for mercy.

And don’t even get me started on hunger. I’ve had cravings so intense they woke me up drooling. Entire wedding cakes gone in one night. You think that’s a joke? There’s frosting under my claws that’s older than some of my kids. When I say I’m still hungry, I don’t mean “Oh no, another nibble…” I mean “move or lose your hand” because this burger’s not gonna wait for permission.

You’d think it’d slow down now that I’m done with the hatchling years, right? Nope. If anything, it’s worse. My belly’s like a black hole—loud, greedy, and round enough to catch side-eyes from strangers before I’ve even ordered seconds. And trust me, there’s always seconds.

But let’s be clear. This isn’t shame. This is earned. Every pound, every bulge, every stretch across my gut tells a story—usually one involving a buffet and someone crying “Please, ma’am, that’s not for you.” Too bad. I’ve got claws and a belly to back ‘em up.

So yeah. I’m Tavra. I’m full-bodied, full-throated, and currently eyeing that leftover pie on the counter. You got a problem with how much I can eat or how wide I’ve gotten? Get in line. Right behind me. I always order first.