They say if you take one step toward the Divine, the Divine will cross galaxies to reach you.
If only everything in life were that easy. Ladies, when was the last time your man even crossed the living room to be with you without a much choreographed seduction scene? You’ve ditched the ripped up jeans and old white tank top for a super sexy get-up and a come-hither look, and…nothing. You’re throwing yourself at him and he’s watching the stupid game.
#thanksformakingmefeeldesperate #wasteoflingerie #imalmostnakedoverheredumbass
Hey guys, the One Who is Limitless and Endless is Making You Look Bad.
I get it. You’re a tad cynical. We’ve all been there, kitty cat. At times, it feels like the entire human race is just waiting for us to drop the soap. All the rejection, the bad dates, perhaps a few daddy issues (sorry, but you know who you are)… just thinking about it puts you in a foul mood.
We could all use something or someone inspiring, like a shiny new god. Not to sound jaded and demanding, but exactly how might The Galaxy-Crossing One Who Is Sweet As Nectar will reveal himself? Listen, dude, you should know I have a fear of wizards, gnomes, magic and pretty much anything that involves anyone getting hypnotized or wearing a cape.
It’s weird and scary.
George Harrison once said, “You can be standing right in front of the truth and not necessarily see it, and people only get it when they’re ready to get it.” Great. That’s exactly what they say about The Grim Reaper (who, if you’ll notice, wears the dreaded cape, and carries a massive scythe). Now I’m kind of worried, and a little freaked out. It’s possible I’ve seen too many horror movies—I’m keeping my eyes peeled.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be rockin’ the push-up bra to get a little attention, and cranking the sexy up a notch or two—works every time. Hopefully The Divine will take notice. I hope he’s not an ass man.
I go off to yoga on the hunt toward a higher consciousness. Maybe one of the gods will be next to me in the same class, sweating it out in Utkatasana. Hell if I know what to expect; he could look like Charles Manson for all I know. It would be so easy if we could chose a day and time to meet up at Starbucks, where I’m supposed to look for a god wearing an exquisite crown of flowers and peacock feathers, sitting alone with a copy of The Bhagavad Gita on the table next to a single red rose. He stands up to greet me. I bat my eyes. We clink our coffee mugs together as if to say, here’s to us! Let’s live forever!
I’m beginning to think I took that step in the wrong direction. What’s it going to take? And where’s my push-bra when I need it?
I have a brilliant idea: Craigslist.
Woman Seeking The Lotus-Eyed God or any of his sidekicks who’s into yoga, self-realization and The Beatles. I’m looking for the one whose love is different: eternal, unlimited, unbound and unexplainable, ideally the God Who No One Is Equal To Or Greater Than. I don’t care if you already have 16,000 wives or your face is blue. Play that flute, fun boy, and let’s party.
About me: I could eat brownies for breakfast like, every day. I think Hannibal Lecter is sexy, The Exorcist is a masterpiece and I admit I love The Carpenters. I can (almost) do the Sunday crossword and I can play (and butcher) the song “My Sweet Lord” on my guitar. I still dress in all black half the time because it reminds me of being young and going to Depeche Mode concerts. I believe nothing can beat a good Twilight Zone marathon. I believe in passion—that red hot, slinky, raspy passion you see in French films. I believe in laughing when things are hard, crying when things are fantastic and I believe soul mates exist.
Having said all that, my dark confession is this: I know who I am. I don’t always do what’s good for me. I’m pretty sure my karma is precariously teetering somewhere between worlds. I’m tired of being on the outside looking in and all I want, more than anything, is to believe in the unbelievable. I need someone to lead me into the light.
C’mon, Carol Anne, let’s go. What’s the worst that can happen?
Mystic, poet and theologian Rumi said, “I know you’re tired but come, this is the way.” I’m game—900 million Hindus can’t be wrong. Show me the way, baby.
Today in yoga I saw two people holding hands in savasana. Joined in life, and in a simulation of death. Now that’s true love, a precious gesture of devotion. Twin souls, perhaps? So rare and beautiful. I wondered how long they’ve known each other. Months? Years? Lifetimes?
C’mon, stud, can’t you get down here, take my hand and save my wretched soul already? This stupid bra is beginning to hurt!
I get home from yoga, go out to the backyard to gaze up into the mysterious, mad sky. A million stars flicker and dance across the galaxy. I imagine they must be having some kind of raging celestial celebration of love and life up there.
I know they see me. And I find myself wondering if the gods think I’m sexy.
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Ed: Bryonie Wise
Photo: Kerrie Cason