Spoof Be Told

The journey to connect with your higher self is supposed to be sacred. Serene. Illuminating. Mine was... none of those. Because instead of meeting some majestic, glowing light-being or ancient wise owl made of stardust and sage smoke, I got Gary. Yes. Gary. My spirit guide wears Crocs, drinks invisible Red Bull, and believes Atlantis invented Wi-Fi. --- The Summoning of Gary It all started with a late-night attempt to “ascend.” You know, the usual—candles, crystals, gentle spa music, and a YouTube video titled “Meet Your Spirit Guide in 5 Minutes (No Tools Needed).” I followed every instruction. I opened my crown chakra like it was a retractable skylight. I breathed like I was made of fog. I called on my ancestors, my higher self, and any available cosmic interns. And then Gary showed up. Just stood there in the middle of my living room, glowing faintly like a nightlight shaped like a man who lives in a retired RV. He wore Crocs with galactic-print socks. His beard looked l...

  If you've ever followed a guided meditation and wondered, “Am I doing this too hard?” —I have an answer for you. Yes. You can absolutely do meditation too hard. I found this out the weird way (as usual), when I followed an online video titled: “Radical Heart Chakra Opening for Deep Healing and Possibly Sweating.” The narrator had a voice like warm soup and ocean mist. She said, “Visualize your heart as a blooming lotus.” I did. She said, “Let go of fear and invite in love.” I did that too. Then she said, “Now imagine a great light pouring through your chest like the sun cracking open a watermelon.” That’s where things went… off-script. Because instead of light, something else came through. A pigeon. A literal pigeon flapped its dusty gray wings and stepped out from inside my chest like it was renting space. It looked around, made eye contact, and cooed. Then it curled up on the left side of my rib cage like it had always lived there. And honestly? I panicked for a f...

This week's episode begins with a simple idea: write some affirmations. Just some innocent, cosmic little mantras to realign my chakras and unclog the energetic hairball that has become my week. Carl, my monocled cactus (and full-time vibe consultant), suggested I do it "the proper way" — meaning with astrology. “Use your birth chart,” he said, sipping something suspiciously sparkly from a cosmic teacup. “Let the stars write your affirmations for you. Just don’t overmix the fire signs with the fixed houses or Mercury might...well, never mind.” That “never mind” should have been my first warning. The Chart Heard ‘Round the Universe I dusted off my birth chart. It’s mostly water signs, which makes sense — I’ve been known to cry during commercials about orange juice. I lit a candle that claimed to smell like “the fourth house of inner transformation” and sat down to channel my cosmic affirmations. “I am aligned with the stars.” “I am guided by the wisdom of the p...

 If you think your sock drawer is just a boring, chaotic place where mismatched socks go to retire, you haven’t met my sock drawer. Mine isn’t just a drawer — it’s a swirling textile shadow portal to all my past mistakes. Yep, you heard that right. Welcome to the second episode of Season 2: We Regret to Inform You, Your Aura Is Leaking — where aura leaks and laundry collide in the weirdest ways. The Beginning of the End (or Maybe the Beginning of Something Strange) It all started on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon. You know the kind: the sun is out, birds chirping, and you convince yourself it’s finally time to tackle the drawer . The sock drawer. The wild, mysterious lair where socks come to live… and sometimes, disappear. So, armed with determination (and a questionable amount of lint), I opened the drawer, ready to declutter and maybe — just maybe — find a lost pair of socks. But instead, I found one lone sock. A faded, mismatched sock that had seen better days — an...

Carl, my monocled cactus roommate-slash-unlicensed spiritual technician, has officially entered his Beverage Era. After last season’s emotional detox via sentient candles, dream subpoenas, and musical toads, I should’ve seen it coming. But nothing—and I mean nothing—could’ve prepared me for the moment he appeared in the kitchen wearing a tie-dye lab coat, holding a mason jar filled with what I can only describe as bioluminescent tea that looked like it had emotional opinions. “This is kombucha,” he said, “infused with fermented inner light. I call it The Chakra Spritz. Drink it, and you’ll finally unclog your soul's sink.” There are things one should question. Like whether your cactus is qualified to ferment anything. Or why the kombucha glowed softly like a fairy in therapy. But instead, I drank it. Because it was Tuesday, and I was bored, and frankly, healing sounded like a decent hobby. The first sip was fizzy. Innocent, even. Floral notes, a hint of something citrus...

Season Finale –  It began the way all great catastrophes do: with eggnog and unspoken emotional wounds. Carl—yes, that Carl, the monocled cactus and accidental life coach—decided that our healing journey needed a festive touch. “We cannot complete the cycle of spiritual rebirth,” he said, swirling cinnamon into a pot like some prickly Gordon Ramsay, “without addressing the true initiator of chaos: the holiday season.” His plan? A Yuletide Healing Bonanza™. There would be eggnog. There would be family flashbacks. There would be ghosts. And, for reasons I didn’t understand until much later, there would be a glittering karaoke machine that only played Mariah Carey’s "All I Want for Christmas Is You" on loop. We were not okay. Phase One: Eggnog and Emotional Exposure Carl’s eggnog was vegan, boozy, and infused with “ancestral spice.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it made my third eye sweat. Within ten minutes, I could feel memories of my mother’s passive-aggressi...

It all started with a sigh. Not just any sigh. One of those deep, weathered exhales that feels like it comes from your ancestors’ spleens. The kind of sigh that could fog up the windows of your soul. Carl, my monocled cactus/spiritual coach/potted enigma, called it “the opening breath of ego excavation.” He says things like that while sipping herbal tea and levitating half an inch off the floor. I don’t question it anymore. The ritual began on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday. That’s when reality feels most emotionally available. Carl rolled out the ceremonial rug—embroidered with motifs that suspiciously resembled my high school GPA—and summoned the fog machine from the hallway closet. "It’s time," he said, adjusting his monocle and lighting a candle shaped like a screaming moon. “Time for what?” I asked, already regretting my curiosity. “Shadow work,” he whispered, as if he were offering me either enlightenment or a particularly niche salad dressing. Shadow work, for...

Lately, my dreams have gotten really wild — and colorful. Instead of quiet, peaceful nights, I keep waking up to images splashed with bright, bold graffiti. Words like “LOVE ME” and “I MISS RECESS” are sprayed across the skies of my dreamscapes like street art. It’s like someone— or something — has taken a can of neon paint and tagged every corner of my mind while I sleep. The culprit? Carl, my monocled cactus friend, says it’s my “unparented psychic youth within” — basically, my inner child finally demanding attention. And trust me, this inner kid has some serious artistic flair. --- The Tagger Inside Me Carl explained that our inner child is the part of us that holds all the feelings and memories from when we were young — the part that sometimes gets forgotten or ignored when life gets busy or tough. When that inner child isn’t heard or cared for, it can start “tagging” our subconscious with messages and colors, just like a rebellious graffiti artist. My dreams started tu...

One morning, I woke up to find something unbelievable in my backyard — a full-blown amusement park. But not a regular one. This park was made by Carl, my monocled cactus friend, and every ride was based on a feeling I’d been keeping locked inside. Carl was standing by a fancy brass ticket booth, wearing a tuxedo and a red bow tie — yes, a cactus in a tuxedo! He handed me a shiny golden ticket and said, “Welcome to Feelingsland. Every ride is one of your repressed emotions brought to life.” I wasn’t sure what to think, but I decided to give it a try. After all, it was Carl’s creation, and if anyone could build a rollercoaster that teaches you about emotions, it’s him. --- Regret Rapids The first ride was called Regret Rapids, a huge wooden rollercoaster twisting over waterfalls. As I climbed into the ride car, I noticed that the water wasn’t just water — it was cold and splashy, like all the “what if” moments in my life. The roller coaster started slow, going up a steep hill...

It began with Carl dragging a dusty box labeled "Scented Emotional Calibration: Experimental" out from the back of the hall closet we both pretend doesn’t exist. It sits wedged between an expired dreamcatcher and a VHS tape labeled "Unfinished Therapy, Vol. 3." He claimed it was time I embraced the olfactory arts, or what he called, with grave monocled sincerity, "The Scentual Path to Emotional Liberation." Carl, a monocled cactus who has recently taken up micro-dosing incense cones, explained the theory while stirring a teacup filled with rosemary and unresolved expectations. According to him, smells were the oldest form of emotional memory, and therefore, the most honest. "We lie with words, postures, dreams, and taxes," Carl announced, "but never with the nose." This led to the great Aromatherapy Experiment. First up was lemongrass. Carl burned a long, curling stick of lemongrass-infused incense while chanting something t...

I downloaded the app because I was stressed. That’s how these things always start, right? Just a simple search: "Mindfulness techniques for existential dread." Next thing I know, I’m clicking on something called FeatherFlow: Mindfulness in Flight. It had five stars, a soft blue icon, and a slogan: Breathe. Be. Become bird. Seemed harmless enough. The onboarding was gentle. A dove cooed at me through the welcome screen while a calming voice said, "Let go of thought. Embrace feather. You are safe in the nest of Now." Carl, my monocled cactus, peered at the screen with suspicion. "Watch your roots," he muttered. At first, the app was charming. Morning meditations came with soft ambient birdcalls. There was a 3-minute exercise where you imagined yourself gliding over a lake. Lovely. It even offered "guided molting" for letting go of emotional baggage. I liked that one. I cried. But then things got… more avian. One morning, I woke up to a ...

  I never thought my bookshelf had feelings until last Tuesday night, when it staged what I can only describe as a full-on literary mutiny. I was slumped on the couch, halfheartedly scrolling through my phone, feeling a cocktail of boredom and anxiety swirl inside me. That’s when the silence in my room thickened—the kind of silence that’s less “peaceful” and more “ominous warning.” I glanced toward my bookshelf—a chaotic monument of my reading life—spines cracked, pages dog-eared, leaning precariously like a fortress about to collapse. The books sat in uneven stacks: a half-finished copy of Infinite Jest sagging beside a shiny new Atomic Habits , the romance novels relegated to a dusty bottom shelf while sci-fi and fantasy jockeyed for top billing. But tonight, something was different. The books seemed... restless. Suddenly, from the self-help section—the motley crew of “How to be a better you” guides, “Manifest Your Destiny” manuals, and “Awaken Your Inner Phoenix” pamphlets—a ...