piñata

You know shit has really hit the fan when "figure out my life" becomes a point on your To-Do List. 

I don't know what kind of celestial tectonic drama was happening up there for a while, but whatever it was resulted in my acquisition of some heavy goods that I've heard commonly referred to as "baggage". Now I've got a collection of big bags, little bags, medium bags, shoulder bags, roller bags, saddle bags, undereye bags. All the bags! The bags are mine. Give me all the bags. 

Not only was there massive life changing/defining/ending upheaval, but I also couldn't catch a break on the daily. 

For months I was reminded every morning of the Bridget Jones I had become courtesy of the taped self-affirmation above my mirror. Yes I did that. I was so desperate for restoration of my psychological health that I was willing to try anything up to and including positive self talk, scripted and robotically read in the presence of but only my own reflection; the dire scene was one I could only experience as if from the third party perspective, making me feel invariably far worse than neutral, much less better. 

There was a day in the lab I found myself on my hands and knees burdened by the scent of excrement while investigating the dust-mite ridden underbelly of the -20C freezers in search of hundreds of runaway fecal samples after my colleague dropped a box of vials filled with human waste on the floor.

I got busted for not swiping my unlimited transportation card (that I PAID for!!!) on the bus in Milan, thus forced to pay a fine meanwhile suffering the unbearable public humiliation that is being socially demonized in the most boring way possible. 

In trying to wax my mustache I took the skin off my upper lip at least three or four times (every time). 

In an emergency bathroom situation I wedged my way through the crowd at the Heathrow Airport to access the single disabled-persons toilet. In my haste I mistook the big red button for the flusher and set off the gnarliest alarm that alerted the entire immigration area that I was a moron. I ran away before sorting out how to actually flush it.

It continued like this and I came to view myself as the personification of the piñata; after being beaten over and over again by a figurative overly young and enthusiastic ephemeral orchestrator of life who I swore had gotten the wrong girl, I finally exploded. But in doing so I realized I was far from empty inside, rather filled with all kinds of cheap candy that everyone hates to admit they secretly like. 

So I peeled the self affirmation off my mirror. I converted all that vial-laden poop into my medical school thesis. I yielded to my neglected creative spirit and gave birth to song lyrics then watched them come to life. Then I went to Cuba. And now I'm back and inspired, with even more cheap candy for all, if you'd only stay posted.