The only thing I would change is giving an ass to kiss to events that wanted me to dance like everyone is watching.

I’m not quite jubilant right now. The only difference between the time now and the time last year is one thing. Before, I believed that I had it all. Now I believe that I have nothing at all. I was in the threshold of 7 of cups territory because each cup represented pleasurable comforts through rose-colored glasses. I thought I was getting ready to pour a cup of emotional fulfillment—but even bad wine sucks sometimes. 

Unless it’s a rainy Thursday evening, then we’ll give bad wine a good name. Just like how Hollywood does with its redundant movies. 

The Illusion Became The Beverage

I instead poured cubic zirconia, a garter snake, and a replica of a castle built on fickle sticks and faux dollar store stones. All of this seemed plausible on paper, but it wasn’t what I wanted. There’s a divergence between desires and the illusion  that seems to manifest itself as a channel of wishful outcomes. This paradigm is worse than making a Christmas list as a kid, and Santa being so cheap that he gets you one bootleg version just to say “See I exist! I bring things in when you ask”! Yeah Santa, this is reality and settling can’t no longer be disguised as opportunity. Put that on your nice or naughty list next time you check over me once or twice. This may also be a subtle dig to the universe because you can have anything you want whether its a mirrored version or a picture-perfect one.

A Perfect Mess

The present reality resembles being in the holding space of the 5 of cups. Ironically I thought I would feel more left out in the cold, instead here I am crying over spilled milk (Almond to be exact). I could easily get a mop and play some Bossanova music to keep myself occupied while cleaning this mess up, but do I have to? Reasonably, I should cry because milk is expensive as hell (Hi grocery stores of America!), and it feels like I’m forced to clean up a mess that I didn’t anticipate. I’m pondering on what didn’t go as planned. I’m delaying myself from moving forward because sometimes the victim’s headspace feels like an encouraging aunt. You know, the one that tells you to buy pizza out although you’re broke and should be cooking meals to last a week. Sometimes that comfort of being in a victim mentality falsely saves us from taking accountability to see the glass half full. Even if that glass is horrible wine that tastes like juice if you close your eyes.

I was on the 3 train in NYC and missed my stop. I wanted to scream because it’s the NYC subway which means I’ll be delayed  going to Brooklyn. The 2 cups behind me were realizing, maybe I wasn’t supposed to go to Brooklyn. Maybe it was supposed to be a fuck it day where I move forward on the vibration of spontaneity instead. My feelings of disappointment were valid, but there was a silver lining—I could eat French fries in Washington Square Park like grease and calories don’t matter and call it a day.

Squeezing Regret To Make Lemonade

Regret sounds like a bad divorce that you don’t get over for years. It’s like a TV show that’s still in syndication because the network can’t sustain themselves with watch- worthy shows. It sounds like vengeance on an outcome that sucks so much that the wound still bleeds through a band-aid. Imagine buying a bunch of bandaids to cover up a wound? That’s like playing second fiddle to your emotional state and letting it be frankensteined to seem ok.

 Only instruments are to be played—or a game of mancala, if you want a royal ass-whooping with marbles. Let me know if you want to play sometime. 

 It’s better to move on to repurpose because it’s kinda cool. It kinda recalibrates you from a one-dimensional reality to a 3D one that actually feels like something worth looking forward to. 

This isn’t a blog, it’s a portal.

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