“So how did you end up in here?”
The registration room sounds like a scene from Orange is the New Black, more divorces and less violent crime though.
No mantras, no metta, no visuals, no guru, no chanting, no yoga. Just the air passing over my nostrils and upper lip, okay.
Why is that woman picking all the almonds out of the muesli, and what kind of sociopath washes dishes like that?!
We haven’t even started the Vipassana part yet? Fuck.
This isn’t meditation. Meditation is bliss and vibrations and warmth and love. This is torture and I hate everyone who encouraged me to do this.
Why was the gong going off all night and who was cooking bacon outside my window?
This is definitely not for me… but I got this far, and you cant go home on day 7. Can you?
Alert! There is LSD in the fruit salad, warn the others! I repeat, there is LSD in the fruit salad.
Every flower and fruit and seed is just a lesson in impermanence… *stares at tree for 45 minutes*
Now that noble silence is lifted and the LSD effect has worn off, get me the fuck out of here.
I am however, comforted to hear I wasn’t the only one having bacon hallucinations.
I wonder if I can find a massage place that will let me drink lattes through a straw in the face-hole of the massage bed…