Everyone Eats the Gummy Worm

I'm having steamed Fish and broccoli for lunch

I'm having steamed fish and broccoli for lunch

Here’s my Zen meets Don Draper assessment of life: Everyone Eats the Gummy Worm.

I’m thinking about this, because  I’m getting sort of a mish-mash of people on my Twitter Feed with no organization at all. Yes, I know there are list-y things, but I am not where I can use those to my (diss-)advantage yet.

SO, there’s @Zen_Habits comingling with @DonDrapersLiver… what the hell is wrong with this picture?

What Does it All Mean?!

Hmmm well…

Maybe it’s a little bit like killing the buddha on the road when you meet him, and then going to the bar afterward to ponder the consequences. Which then leads to getting so drunk you forget where you parked the car, so you let a really hot guy drive you home and make out with him in front of your house until your Mom comes out and pounds on the window and says “Where the hell is the car?!” and you pull away from the handsome redhead and suddenly think:

“Wasn’t I 40-years-old and in India at the beginning of this story?”

Then, of course, other questions follow

Why am I so human? Did I ever actually READ “The Hitchhiker’s Guide” or did my husband just talk about it a lot?  Why am I so interested in what in your closet today, you supremely wonderful, semi-famous-y other normal person?

Poor Buddha. He had no idea I was coming, that I bludgeoned him with that thrift store andiron, and that afterward I slugged back that unworthy bourbon, and and cheated on my guru.

My Twitter feed prompts me into such trouble. It is a rambly-pambly edible metaphor of who I dream of being, along with the hauntings of my distracted life. I love both parts of that life so much. I love consuming the beany fiber of daily inspirations and rah-rahs that spur me to action, reminding me I’m GOOD!

But at the same time, I roll my tongue luxuriously over the wriggling sweet candy of black humor, word play, exhaustion and personal angst that TASTE so good.

Handily, It’s a also great place to grab a pile of  life coaches and to stare into their beatific smiles.  I love them for that.

But I crave, too, the rolling-rumbling beer bellies and grease-slick smirks. I am not going to eat quinoa (I don’t know how to pronounce it yet) at every meal, even if I lie to you and say I will.

Yeah, I crave black beans on Tuesdays, with tortillas and a margarita and time with Tammy.

But I like dessert. I like crunchy sugar worms that no self-respecting carp would ever fall for.

Shouldn’t  we all?

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