My weighted blanket and massager is causing my acupressure mat to dig into my skin. My gel blackout eye mask isn’t blocking out all of my sun lamps. After mixing the most soothing pastel soft pink, lavender and sea green paints, now my walls are a concerning shade of brown. My wind chimes clash with my whale song soundtracks, and the rainforest waterfalls make me want to pee. My essential oils combine toxically with my scented meditation candles. Every day I soak my Brazil nuts and pumpkin seeds in a mixture of dark chocolate, eggs and fish oil, before washing them down with chamomile-turmeric green tea.
I spend my days doing Tai-chi barefoot on sharp heated stones, listening to 538 podcasts, jabbing pins into Team Trump voodoo dolls, while shading my adult electoral college map coloring books. Any aircraft passing at 2:35 pm will clearly see that the shadows of my patio furniture spell out “JOE”. I’ve dyed my 17 cats blue. At night, of course, I relax by berating anyone who is wrong on the Internet. My friends and family frequently express concern about my having access to cutlery.
