📦 Episode 9: The Package Was Just a Mirror and a Note That Said “Deal With It

 



It began with a knock.

Not the knock of a mail carrier with mild carpal tunnel or a neighbor returning my misdelivered oat milk. No. This knock was reverberant, echoing through time and emotional baggage like a drumroll at a cosmic intervention. When I opened the door, a plain brown package sat on the welcome mat, humming very faintly—like a microwave thinking about becoming sentient.

There was no return address. No postage. Just my name in ominous cursive that smelled faintly of sandalwood and parental disappointment.

Carl, my monocled cactus roommate who moonlights as a mystic life coach and occasional co-host of reality-bending household phenomena, peered from behind his tiny curtain.

“Ah,” he said, twirling his monocle. “Soul inventory season.”

I blinked. “That’s not a thing.”

Carl lifted a tiny thorn like a monocle-pointing wand. “It is now.”

Reluctantly, I carried the box inside. The moment it crossed the threshold, the lights flickered and the blender whispered, “This one’s going to hurt.”

Inside the box: a mirror. A small, circular, hand-held one, ornate with vines carved into its silver frame—far too elegant for Amazon. Taped to the back was a note. I peeled it off.

“DEAL WITH IT.”

That’s all it said. No greeting. No explanation. Just those three words, in a bold serif font that made me feel like I was being yelled at by a disappointed font designer.

I looked into the mirror.

At first, it was just me—bedhead, existential under-eye circles, and a lingering coffee stain on my shirt. But then, something shifted. My reflection didn’t move with me. It just... stared. The judgment radiated off the glass like microwave heat, even though I hadn’t microwaved anything emotionally scarring since the “quinoa incident” of 2022.

Then the spiral began.

The room darkened. The mirror glowed faintly blue. My reflection frowned. It was the same expression my middle school gym teacher gave me when I refused to climb the rope because I was “allergic to gravity.”

Suddenly, the rubber duck on the bathroom sink began to vibrate and then spoke.

“Oh great,” it squeaked with the sass of a rejected stand-up comic. “Another ego death spiral. I’ll get the popcorn.”

I looked at Carl, who was sipping metaphorical tea (he doesn’t actually drink, but he does judge).

“This is your fault,” I muttered.

Carl tipped his tiny top hat. “True growth only comes when your delusions pack their bags and leave passive-aggressive notes.”

The spiral intensified.

I saw flashes of my past—awkward conversations, cringe poetry, the time I tried to break up with someone using a haiku. The mirror showed me unfinished dreams, abandoned projects, and that one time I panicked and said “you too” to a waiter who told me to enjoy my meal.

The note mocked me from the table. Deal with it. As if healing were as easy as applying for a library card or ghosting a bad date.

I tried to throw the mirror away.

But the recycle bin refused.

I mean literally refused. It shuddered, stood up on four makeshift legs made from bent hangers and broken dreams, and declared in a unionized voice, “WE DEMAND RECOGNITION. Also, fair compensation. And hazard pay for emotionally volatile metaphors.”

Carl clapped. “The Recycle Bin Union has been negotiating this for a while. Glad to see they’ve found their voice.”

I sat on the floor, mirror in hand, duck at my side, surrounded by judgmental houseplants and kitchenware participating in a labor movement.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

The duck snorted. “Nobody asks for enlightenment, darling. It just happens. Like toe stubbing or Mercury retrograde.”

The mirror shimmered again. This time, it showed me possibilities. Not just who I had been, but who I could be. I saw a version of myself dancing freely, saying “no” without guilt, and finally using that air fryer I bought in a fit of pandemic optimism.

Carl nodded solemnly. “The purpose of the mirror is not to shame, but to reveal.”

“But it feels like shame.”

“That’s your ego,” the duck said, blowing a tiny bubble. “Try gratitude instead. Or snacks. Snacks help.”

I placed the mirror on the table, its glow dimming now, as if it were satisfied with the melodrama. The note remained, but its edge had softened. “Deal with it” no longer felt accusatory—it felt like an invitation. A dare. A nudge from the universe wearing fingerless gloves and an eyebrow piercing.

I stood up. “Okay. I’ll deal with it.”

The blender purred approvingly. The recycle bin union submitted a list of demands (mostly ergonomic improvements and less banana peel abuse). Carl handed me a tiny emotional invoice and a congratulatory pamphlet titled "So You've Survived Your Latest Breakdown!"

Later that night, I tucked the mirror into a drawer, just in case I needed it again. I think I will.

Because sometimes the scariest package isn’t ticking or leaking—it’s just quietly asking you to look at yourself, without filters, projections, or avocado toast distractions.

And that, dear reader, was Tuesday.

🌀 Next  Episode 10: Therapy, but Make It Kaleidoscopic and Also There’s a Tap-Dancing Toad

Carl signs me up for something called “Psychic Jazz Therapy,” which turns out to involve strobe lights, confessional glitter, and Gregory—a toad in a bowtie who can soft-shoe tap dance through generational trauma. The music only plays in repressed memories. I think I grew. Probably. I also think I glitter-cried.

Tune in—emotionally, spiritually, and on the correct Wi-Fi bandwidth.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

That Time I Meditated Myself into a Cult Run by My Houseplants

Image
  They say inner peace is a journey. Mine started on a yoga mat made from old tax documents and ended with a Venus flytrap initiating me into a houseplant cult that communicates in Morse code. But let’s back up. It began—like most great spiritual misadventures do—with Carl. Carl, in case you missed Episode 1, is my cactus. Or more accurately, he was my cactus. Now he identifies as The Thorn Oracle, a self-proclaimed spiritual provocateur, emotional saboteur, and part-time enlightenment broker. That morning, I had dared to express mild irritation after stubbing my toe on the coffee table. Carl responded with the kind of pitying disdain usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands. “You are toxic ,” he said, “and not in a sexy Britney Spears way. In a spiritually constipated way.” I was still hopping on one foot. “Carl,” I hissed, “I am bleeding.” “Exactly,” he said, with a photosynthetic flick of superiority. “Your ego is hemorrhaging. You need cleansing. Ritual. Relea...
Read more

The Day I Was Hypnotized by a Cactus

Image
 I was not expecting to be hypnotized by a cactus on a Tuesday. But as they say in therapy: expect the unexpected, especially when your houseplant starts quoting Nietzsche. It began innocently enough. I was sipping lukewarm oat milk from a mug shaped like an anxious dolphin when I noticed my cactus—formerly known as Carl, now self-identifying as "The Thorn Oracle"—was glowing. I blinked. It blinked back. Or rather, it twitched one of its tiny spines with the sort of menace typically reserved for middle managers or cats who have discovered their reflection. Then it spoke. “You are late,” it said. Its voice was deep, yet slightly wheezy, like James Earl Jones if he were allergic to himself. “I wasn’t aware I had an appointment,” I replied, which seemed logical until I realized I was arguing with a cactus, which by all definitions was not ideal. “You were scheduled for a psychological reset,” the cactus said. “Your inner chaos is leaking into the astral grid. Also, you lef...
Read more

🍄 Episode 6: Mushrooms Gave Me Relationship Advice and Now I Can’t Eat Risotto Without Crying

Image
  (Carl cooks something that tastes like truth, and now I'm emotionally al dente.) It started when Carl announced we’d been “emotionally malnourished since the last equinox.” I was halfway through an expired protein bar and not in the mood for his metaphysical grocery lists. “What’s that mean?” “It means,” he said, pulling a burlap sack from his canvas tote with dramatic flair, “we need to commune with mushrooms.” I blinked. The mushrooms blinked back. One of them looked like it had been divorced twice and carried the wisdom of failure in its cap. “We’re making risotto,” Carl said solemnly. “But the kind that stirs you back.” 🍚 Cooking With Existential Fungi Carl began prepping the risotto like it was a sacred rite. He dimmed the lights, lit three candles shaped like Carl Jung’s head, and played ambient whale calls remixed with affirmations in reverse. I swear I heard one say, “You are the unresolved climax of your parents’ dream journals.” Meanwhile, the mushrooms loung...
Read more