Summer Cerebrations: Books, Burnout, and Body Image

That's right, "ceRebrations" as in thinkings, not a racist interpretation of the word "celebrations."

Speaking of which, is it just me or is the mocked Asian accent the most cringe-worthy of all mocked ethnic accents? Every other feigned foreign accent (particularly all the European ones) sounds like either an homage or jealousy, both of which yield a very different somatic response than all those spawned by the godfather of all offensive Asian accents, Mickey Rooney. I digress already. That must be a record.


Speaking of digressions, I would have finished writing this last night, but a mild maggot infestation in the kitchen sink rocked my entire universe, to be dramatic as fuck but also justifiably so. I discovered these tiny baby maggots (not yet fattened by whatever detritus upon which they intended to feed) right before a session, so my client was entertained to no end that every wisp of my summer-shedding hair that touched my arm or leg sent me into a severe spasm. She was nearly in tears laughing about it. A post-session return to the maggots resulted in a desperate FaceTime consultation with my parents and Eo, in which I couldn't stop whining, Eo kept saying "Goodbye, Gaga," while taking screenshots of me, and my parents kept telling him to stop telling me goodbye and also what did I expect them to do about this from all the way over there, so just spray them with insecticide and throw them in the trash... Sad vomit face x3. Armed with a jug of bleach, Becky on FaceTime for spiritual support, and doing my damnedest to be an adult, I cleared the area, and was awake for the next 6 hours, presumably from a non-lethal mix of adrenaline, trauma, and Clorox.


Anyway! I recently read (by 'read', I mean skimmed) one article about how 1 billion sea creatures died in the Pacific Northwest due to this heat wave that will surely end up internally and externally charring the rest of us (though there's a particular scent of heat that happily calls to mind more humid faraway lands), and another article about how an impending moon wobble (I like this term) will create a surge in high-tide floods for coastal areas in the next decade, to which my response is, What is really keeping me from completely shoving any and all responsibility beyond the wayside and fucking off on a beach with a book a day until we all die, which, at the rate we're going on planet Earth, will happen in like 2 years?


The indirect and distracted non-answer to that question: an abbreviated list of shit that's fucked me up this week, accompanied by some neutral thoughts. If you came here salivating for inspiration, kindly remind yourself that this site's acronym stands for Our Fucked Up Life.

"polarity: me v me edition" | this is on some real art therapist shit, connecting every single word of the title to this image.

1. Fast, Furious. You, fast; I, furious. Get it? You know, "me Tarzan, you Jane"? I like to explain my jokes because I don't want anybody feeling left out, and I also like to help people feel smarter than they actually are.

The other night on my hour drive home from my brother's, at least 5 cars drove past at well over 100mph, weaving in and out and being overall dicks. Can't you idiots see the BABY I'M BORED sticker on the back of my car that looks enough like a BABY ON BOARD sticker to be taken to mean I have babies in my car that I demand be treated like the hypothetical precious cargo they are? By the time I was a mile from my exit, I'd fucking had it. Every new car who sped past me and the rest of us decently paced humans received rapid high beam flashes from me, intended to incite a rearview mirror seizure or the illusion that they were getting busted by a hidden copper so that they may slow down for the rest of their useless and drug-addled lives (Okay, we're in that kind of mood today. Noted.).

Ever since this place (California/this country) officially opened back up, everyone's been acting looney tunes as fuck (prime example: two cars careening off the freeway and crashing into my front yard within two days, which hasn't happened in a few decades). ...I was going to say a horrible joke, but if you really want to hear it, you can email me, because I don't want anything getting back to me for fear of future cancellation.


2. Drinking does not work the way it used to. After 20 months of semi-unintentional sobriety, I slithered back into a mimosa during hair and makeup pre-Galvezacapay wedding to calm my officiating nerves, then had some tequila somethings throughout the night for celebration and funsies, and then had a few somethings last week on my Lizvet date while we pretended we were back in Italy. All in all, I did not get drunk as I sort of hoped to, but I did get a headache before the night was over, as well as a bit of nausea, and immobility for the entire next day. A bit disappointing, but I'm not really surprised, given that these were some of the reasons I stopped in the first place. I'll have to search for some other harmful hobby, or just stick to doing what's best for all of my bodies. That being said, I have no regrets and no guilt, so next round's on me!


3. Burnout. What more is there to say? Covid turned me into a boss, and (not-really-)post Covid turned me into a burnout. I've never worked so much for such an extended period of time, and without regular periods of fucking off. Or maybe I just never had a job to give as much of a shit about, or a job that required I give a true shit in order to be successful or just ethical. Either way, I'm burned the fuck out, BUT I met with my therapist/spiritual healer on Wednesday eve, who cleared much of the burnout energy out of my system, AND I'm taking the last week of July off to celebrate my birth as if I had anything to do with it, have a staycation with my boo, and maybe give drinking another go.

It's a strange juxtaposition I find myself in, to love what I do and derive loads of purpose and fulfillment from it, but to also want to do absolutely nothing for the rest of my life, starting two weeks ago. For fuck's sake, I've begun procrastinating on procrastinating. It's about to be the Inception of procrastination in this bitch. I don't know how people work so hard or so much and stay alive or even alert. It boggles the mind (though not enough to make me start drinking coffee) and makes me want to add one more nap to the three naps I take daily, each lasting 5-10 minutes in between sessions. I have never been labeled as a hard worker and after a year of trying it out, am perfectly fine leaving it off of my epitaph. Lolz, can you imagine?


"Sharon Brooke Fannypack Uy

July 1984 - May 2137

Great-great-great-great-great-grandmother

Daughter, Sister, Hard Worker."


Yeah, neither can I. Except for my death date, which I am super manifesting. (Is it obvious I am a Manifester? As in, obsessed with the show?!)


4. Body image ish-uuueesss (issues). I was trying to recall the first time I ever noticed I had a body or that I had any kind of judgment about it. The first time I can remember thinking about my body was perhaps in 7th or 8th grade, when someone asked me if I had an eating disorder (LOL). (Also, I did not.) I was just very skinny, which makes sense since the onset of womanhood was still a ways away. Since then, I think I've gone through four puberties, which is like losing every level of a video game but instead of dying and/or starting over, you just continue forth in that way until you hit menopause or enlightenment.

The first time I had any judgment about my body was when I saw that an ex's new girlfriend had a big ass, and I thought... Wait, why do I not have a big ass? I was about 17 then, and it's been downhill ever since. Who knew downhill could last so long?

I was listening to Glennon Doyle's podcast episode on Our Bodies. She said that on any given day, she spends 50% of her thoughts on her body, or something related to her body. I thought, Ha! And then I thought, Oh. As in, "Ha! That's crazy!" followed by, "Oh. Damn. Me too, except maybe a higher percentage."

If you have no idea what I'm talking about and/or find these words unrelatable, you're either a dude or have steel plates for a brain or have never set foot in Los Angeles. To each of these, I applaud you and also slap you in the face with my glove.

For some (or like 10,000) reasons, my body image issues have been kicking in hard, to the point where I just feel angry. Angry at my body, angry at myself for being angry with my body. It's absolutely nuts to have lost so much sight of gratitude, but the first step out of hell is acknowledging it, or whatever every self-help book says. I certainly don't want anger to be the reason I work out or eat a salad. I want to eat a salad and exercise because I want to live to my death date of May 2137 without my organs failing or my joints snapping off, and I also want to enjoy with love and ecstasy the crap fast food I was raised on. (I also wonder if Pacquito has been semi-starving himself because he is psychically picking up on my energy. More fuckballs.)

Every time I look at my body in the mirror, there's a judgment pop quiz, and the only two answers are

A) Good

B) Bad

As in, damn bitch, you're ripped, don't ever stop doing what you're doing but maybe lay off the Coke and dairy and sweets and white bread (A)! Or, WTF, and not in a good way (B).

I'd like to see myself like the woods in Ram Dass's teaching, which I will quote here because I am a master of butchering quotes and would never want to butcher the words of my guru.

"When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree. The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgment mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are."

I can't recall the last time I looked at my body and just allowed it, when I looked at an arm or my stomach without hoping for my own approval and either getting it or not getting it, even though either way never just ends there. Therefore, I will, somehow, gods and goddesses and mortals as my witnesses, turn myself into a tree.

My clients often ask, "Will I have to deal with [insert any and every emotional issue] for the rest of my life?" Yes, I say, but not necessarily in the same way it's being dealt with now. That's where the hard work (the only kind I'm actually stoked to do) comes in. Same for me and perhaps for us all.


5. Client lessons. Speaking of clients, and on to more positive things, which is admittedly a little bit off-brand, I sometimes feel I should return a portion of my clients' moneys, as I learn much from them, too. I also rescind the middle part of that statement, effective now.

One client graduated, so to speak, which means we've both succeeded at our respective jobs. She's in a place of equanimity, and it's all because she's being mindful of everything she's ingesting. Not just physically but energetically. She's compassionately watching what she's eating and also watching what kind of conversations she's taking part in. Exercising in moderation and not gluing her eyes to any device for extended periods of time (or at all). A good reminder.

Another client spoke of the best advice he'd received from his father: that he can never change someone else, but he can change the way he regards that person. Another good and timely reminder.

Slydial. If you don't want to risk calling and having to speak to someone on the phone, but you need to leave a voicemail, download this app, or something similar. Kind of fucked up, but also, protect them psychic boundaries.


6. Book. In the last post, I said I'd get to writing the fucking book. Well, I got to starting to write the fucking book. I'm also reading a fuck ton. Sometimes I don't know if I'm reading to avoid writing or if I'm reading to gain inspiration. It's kind of like, am I eating to vomit or am I vomiting to eat? Or if you're at a buffet, am I pooping to clear space or am I clearing space to eat more and then poop again because that's how the digestive system works?

Everything I've ever done (outside of anything related to fucking off) has been because someone has made me feel bad for not doing it. Examples include and are definitely not limited to: laundry, opening a bank account, going to junior college, going to real college, getting a job, doing something with my life. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad it all happened because now I'm the CEO of Whole Foods, but still.

Being an adult is wild. Being a kid is the shit. Like, adults work to pay for you to live and survive. I guess that's why they call them sugar "daddies" and sugar "mommies." Except with those sets of parents, you maybe have to hold hands or administer a blow job or appease some weird fetish.

Of course I'd end this with a digression. The point was that one day a book, written by me and not because someone made me feel bad about not having written one but because it is my destiny, will be out and about in the universe, and it'll become a NYT and DWP and PYT bestseller and I'll become a bajillionaire with yachts and a cadre of sugar babies under my control who give me 65% of their earnings and shit, and then someone will find something offensive within this blog and cancel all of my status and wealth, but at least we'll still have each other.

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