I’m Supposed To Meditate, But Supertramp Keeps Fucking It Up
My cut rate therapist who claims to have seen actual demons has given me the assignment. I’m supposed to meditate for 5 minutes a day.
Five. Whole. Fucking. Minutes.
First of all, the option of ‘clearing my mind’ is right out. It’s way too fucking noisy in there. It’s like being at a crowded bar where everyone is drunk an ONE person is saying “Hey, you guys. Hey. Hey, you guys..Listen to me. Shhhh…just listen to me for a minute”.
It’s not going to fucking happen.
This is what has happens every time I try to clear my mind and sit quietly with my thoughts:
Okay, Michelle. Just quiet down. Listen to your thoughts. Don’t judge them, just watch them float by.
This is boring.
Is five minutes up yet?
It’s been 32 seconds.
Then my brain decides that we’re going to listen to the The Logical Song by Supertramp. The problem is, I don’t know the words to that song all that well, so I just make them up. I have no control over this.
NO. We are not going to play Supertramp. Just stop that now.
So they send me away and teach me how to be bendable, a receptacle, grow tentacles, be biblical.
That’s just silly, dumbass, I’m pretty sure tentacles isn’t part of the song.
No, wait. Don’t call yourself a dumbass. You’re supposed to be learning to say NICE things to yourself. Dippy cunt.
Then Supertramp, who at this point have become the Rockettes, are kicking their way through my head and continuing the song that never ends.
I don’t even know what the members of Supertramp look like. Didn’t I have Breakfast In America? Pretty sure I did. I think we all had that album, right? Wait, Breakfast In America? Is that the right album name? I suck at album names.
And they show me a world where I could be so indelible, delectable, confrontational, burnable.
It’s five fucking minutes. I can’t think about nothing for five fucking minutes.
Then I go to work where people are pitiful, hysterical, umbilical, war criminals.
I’m not sure the meditation thing is going to work out for me.