MJB

Yesterday was a phenomenal day. I listened to my morning affirmations and dutifully repeated them to myself--primarily because of a tarot card reading the night before which was clearly, inarguably, letting me know that the secret to my happiness (brilliant, sparkly, star and princess of cups-type unbelievable happiness) is to re-program the evil robot who habitually chants a litany of negative thought loops into my brain. Actually, he's not really a robot, per se, I'm thinking of someone else's evil mind-monster. No, mine is this horrible abs-of-steel Armani-suit wearing guy who works on Wall Street, that stands like he has a metal rod for a spine, just behind my right shoulder, and never seems to run out of criticisms. You're not a real writer, you're not taking care of yourself, you're irresponsible (that extension you filed for your taxes is about to run out and you still haven't found an accountant), you're wasting the last vestiges of your youth on a series of meaningless activities that are leading you nowhere, the bar is no place to find love, do you really think that at your age you can get away with wearing skirts that short? That kind of thing.

So he needs to be re-programmed. And I think this is possible. I think that my brain is just the site of a million chemical reactions per minute, and by breaking the usual patterns of chemical reactions that send me spiralling into self-deprecating and unproductive darkness, I can get rid of Armani-suit guy and replace him with someone more benign--a voluptuous, encouraging, maternal type of figure, perhaps, a woman who shakes her voluminous bottom on the dance floor without shame, say, and reminds me that, as amusing as all this self-deprecation is, I should never under any circumstances let it dictate the length of my skirts.

With this in mind, I pulled out the affirmations disk and threw in some Mary J Blige. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that what followed was a bit on the stereotypical side--me, in my underwear, dancing with abandon over the shiny surface of my hardwood floor, and singing along at the top of my lungs--to the dismay, I'm sure, of my bar-tending neighbor who usually sleeps until three--with the self-named soul hip-hop queen, about how whatever I do, it's gonna be hot, and how I got my head on straight, I got my vibe right, I ain't gonna let you kill it. I directly addressed this message to the Wall Street robot that lives in my brain, now gazing at me in surprise and vague horror at my vocal stylings and spastic dance moves, until he became nothing more than a crumpled, pin-striped, stayed-out-too-late doing blow heap of expensive couture in the far corner of my room. He really looked rough. I kicked him out the window.

And everything that followed that day was sheer delight.