because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

That Awkward Chrysalis Cocoon Shit


Somebody I care about a lot, a lot, a lot, is going through a rough time lately. I found myself saying the words: ‘You know what? It’s like before the caterpillar becomes a butterfly. When the caterpillar is doing all that awkward chrysalis cocoon shit, it has to be goo-ey, unidentifiable mush so it can eventually become the beautiful being the Universe intended. That’s all that’s happening to you right now- that awkward chrysalis cocoon shit. It’s a process.”

Creepy extended metaphors for the broken-hearted? I haz ‘em.

I’m a narcissist, so this discussion, obviously, led me to think about how that sentiment also applies to me- all advice being autobiographical etc. I’m no dummy: maybe I’m doing my own awkward chrysalis cocoon shit right now. In fact, a quick scout over the last few entries of this blog makes that painfully apparent, to the extent that wow, guys. How have you not Tweeted me the name of your best therapist yet?

Y’all knew I was dealing with some “stuff” before I did, didn’t you? YOU’RE SO WISE. Also, your aura is really shiny and bright today, hot stuff.

I’ve never been shy about talking about feeeeeeelings, but over this Bank Holiday weekend, as I inhaled Chris Guillebeau’s The Art of Non-Conformity, I didn’t feel lovey and dovey and hippy and dippy, I felt… I felt like I do when I listen to Mumford and Sons. Like I wanna start flipping tables and storming castles and yelling things that involve shaking my fist in the air at men in kilts.

Basically, spoiler alert: to live the life you want, you have to set your own rules. And to set your own rules? It’s a revolution. Also- scary. 

I quit my job because I wasn’t happy. I figured out that I’ve got zero time for drugs, no matter how much I enjoy the people I just watched snort ‘em. I like people who do good for goodness’ sake, and recognised that I don’t like being hungover ipso facto I’ve given up the drink. I spoke up instead of squashing my happy and decided that fine. I want romance- so I put myself in a position to find it.

And in doing all of those things, the things that make me really, truly inspired and more myself than anything else? Well, there’s an awful lot of people with an opinion on it. To which I say: my choices are your business how, exactly?

My friend Dawn has a theory that everything we do, we do to get closer to God. And by God, I mean Universe, because hi we’ve met and: angels. So if you get off your tits shotting tequila from a hooker’s belly button, that high is a way for you to feel closer to the ultimate love force, the Universe. If she runs eight and half miles every evening, come rain or shine, she does it because the sweat dripping into her eyes fill her soul with the ecstasy of the Universe. Great sex is a way (the best way?) (I didn’t mean that) (Yes I did) to get closer to it. Dinner with friends who make you better. Staring really long and hard at a painting that defies words, but makes your heart swell with gratitude. It’s the Universe.

I want the Universe inside of me. To drink her up, bathe in her glory, swim inside everything she has to offer. Be alive. And if that means that I decide that the East London trendy scene with its coke binges and all-nighters and lost weekends at raves isn’t for me, that my Universe isn’t to be found at the bottom of that whisky bottle, and another story about just how crazy it was, man, then it doesn’t mean that you can’t do it, or that I’m somehow less fun for eschewing it. It just means my Universe is somewhere different.

I want cosy suppers with my favourites, and to get up with the sun every day to meditate. Awareness. Purposefulness. Respect. A path that isn’t 9-5 drudgery, working five days to enjoy two. I choose everyday magic and learning and love- to really fucking love- and none of it is stopping you from doing it your way, and all of it is making me more joyous by learning which way is mine, so to the critics I wonder, aloud, if we can’t simply agree to disagree. My fun is the clean kind, and that suits me fine.

Stop teasing me about drinking water at the pub. Don’t call me boring when I’m in bed by midnight. Yes, I really want to do a sugar detox. None of that hurts you, so next time you comment I’m gonna tell you to fuck off. Change is coming.

I’m busy doing that awkward chrysalis cocoon shit, okay?

Want to say something about this post?
Twitter.
Email.

Share:
© superlatively rude | All rights reserved.