and this is what happened…

Monthly Archives: August 2013

I’m pretty sure my face was smashed up against the window of the plane the entire duration of our flight to Mexico. It’s not that being on a plane was a foreign concept to me. I mean, I was a flight attendant when I was 19, but going back and forth to Indianapolis 4 times a day was hardly a freeing and a globe-trotting experience.

I didn’t even want to talk, I was so caught up in my racing mind full of white sand, blue ocean and all things Mexican. However, my very still drunk and annoying AS FUCK BFF was sitting next to me, begging me to converse.

See, about 8 hours prior to us being wheels up, I was picking her ass up from a Keith Urban concert. Not only did I have to sit in traffic at the Edward Jones Dome for an hour after it let out, but I had to try to navigate the whereabouts of a very drunk woman.  “I’m…I’m by the big sign. The blue one. ” She slurred into the phone. I can’t recall if some form of “eat a dick” was yelled as her valediction or not, as was standard conversational protocol with us. I realllllllly didn’t feel like driving all over St. Louis trying to find her once she got tired of waiting and decided to just start trucking it on foot to my house.

Once I finally did find her, she dove into my car, started screeching about how amazing the concert was,  unwrapped and popped in a piece of gum, lit a menthol Marlboro and shoved her legs out the window. With ankles crossed over her boot laden feet, cowboy hat pulled down low over her eyes, she turned the radio to a country station and a Keith Urban song started playing. I can’t remember the exact conversation that ensued in that moment, but it was something along the lines of what Jay-Z sings about in “Forever Young”.

Though I was pissed that I wasn’t going to get much shut-eye since we had to be up in 2 hours, I looked over at her and my heart swelled. The woman sitting next to me, though intoxicated and erring on the side of hitting a last nerve…was happy.

So there we were, on the plane. I was fucking excited. Plain and simple. I’d never had a shot of tequila. I’d actually never been adult wasted before. You know, the kind of  wasted where you sort of pace yourself but are still able to walk and at least bark out coherent noises as the night goes on. The kind that you’re not puking all over yourself an hour into things. Don’t get me wrong. I’d drank tons of times, but I was still in baby-ville when it came to alcohol. I was used to nights of Boone’s Farm still. So, as you can imagine, I had plenty of exploratory ideas for myself on this vacation.

“Mer, I can’t believe you just got your passport in the mail 2 days ago. You seriously do not let shit worry you man.” She said as she titled her neck back and tried to get comfortable.

“Eh, the lady said it would take 3 weeks to process. Shit always has a way of working out.”

“Yeah, but seriously, I would have been freaking out.”

“Because you are a total, control-freak spaz….We’re doing a shot of tequila the second we land.”

“Fuck that. I’m gonna take a nap.”

“No, you’re gonna pull your balls out of your vagina and do a shot of tequila. Several actually.”

“Ok, Mer. Whaaaaaatever you say.”

When we got off the plane, the hot smell of the Cancun Airport hit me in the face. Mildew infused limestone with a salty after-sniff. Seriously, that place has a one of a kind nasal assault. Suddenly a rush of adrenaline came over me and I wanted to jump out of my skin. It was fucking GO TIME.

It ended up being go time about an hour later once we got through customs, found our bags and hauled past all the perfectly ironed shirts hawking time shares and excursions.

We jumped in the van going to our resort and the extremely friendly driver sold us 2 cervzas for 5 dollars from his cooler. As he handed them to us, I pointed out the big red and white sign that clearly states no drinking in the vehicle. We clinked bottle necks and said, “Oooh, cervezzzzas.”  It took about 15 minutes to get to The Royal Cancun and I loved every minute of it. There’s a stretch of road that’s nothing but lush forestry with bits of barren dirt and then all of a sudden it opens up to ocean on your right side. That my friends, is Dolphin Beach. It may be the most gorgeous sight these little eyes have seen in my 28 years. I wanted to cry. That’s how much I love the fucking ocean.

But I didn’t cry. I yelled “Cervezas!” Scaring our driver and my BFF. Oops.

We were greeted with a glass of champagne as we rolled our suitcases along the burnt orange and cream-colored marble. Huge bouquets of Birds of Paradise and Lillies sat in the center of the Lobby. I had decided in that moment I wasn’t going home. I hadn’t even really seen anything yet and I just wanted to stay there forever.

We sat down in crushed velvet wing back chairs and waited while we were checked in. “Your room will not be ready until 3, senoritas. Please leave your luggage here and go have some lunch and your bags will be waiting in your room when you’re finished” said a very Ricky Martin-esq looking man. Imagine all that with a Spanish accent too.

We grabbed our swimsuits out of our bags, left everything else at the front desk and made our way to the beach. After me basically losing my shit over the pool, and the decor, and all the damn bottles of booze I saw EVERYWHERE, we plopped down on one of the beach cabanas about 75 feet from the ocean.

I did my flying squirrel move right onto the faux leather covered mattress of the cabana and breathed a sigh of content. That lasted about 3 seconds and I shot up and said, “What’s the word for many?”

“Uh, mas, I think?”

“Cool, find a cabana boy, it’s on and poppin'”

To be continued….

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Maybe I’m moving to an Island to become a better writer. To fill my days with something other than what I’ve experienced up to this point. Not to escape, but to discover. Isn’t that the point of life?

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to become a sand collector. Sand that will foster beautiful blown pieces of glass. Don’t you make blown glass from sand? Wouldn’t that be a kick-ass thing to put on a resume?

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to rip out parts of my soul and toss them into the ocean like a message in a bottle. Hoping that one day a complete stranger will discover the encapsulated sadness washed up on a foreign beach and heal parts of themselves.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to make sense of my love addiction. Up until about a week ago I was in denial that I was a junkie…well, at least it’s not porn or cocaine.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to discover what fun and reckless-abandon means for ME.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island to keep my fucking promises. Long ago a sense of adventure and discovery imprinted into my chest cavity and not acting on it was never an option.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island because why the fuck would I not?

Maybe moving to this Island will get me closer to that Orphanage in Cambodia. I don’t know exactly where or when, but my heart keeps tugging me in that direction.

Maybe I’m moving to an Island because I broke down and thrust into the Universe what it is that I wanted. Though what I wrote on my apartment wall that day in April looked a little different from what I’m about to travel to, I desired so deeply that it manifested.

And Maybe just maybe, I’m moving to an Island to lose myself completely…only to find her hidden between jagged rocks and salty sea water.


As I sat on the balcony overlooking the intoxicatingly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the gentle breeze caressed my face and I felt a little less like a bag of assholes than I did five minutes prior to walking out on that patio.

My best friend and I were on day two of our impromptu “Let’s get the fuck outta here and go to Mexico for a week.” I was 22 at the time and being a Mexico virgin, my bags were packed even before our tickets were bought. We spent about a day researching the best resort before she called her travel agent and booked a week in paradise.

Out of the two of us, I have always been trigger happy. I have always been the one to make a decision with lighting speed and rarely suffered from buyer’s remorse or spend agonizing moments second guessing myself after I start on down a particular path after a fork in the road. My best friend is slow and steady. She weighs the pros and cons and then weighs them again. Maybe it’s due to the fact she is 9 years older than me and she learned just a tad more patience than I possessed. Or maybe the stark differences in our personality were one of the cosmic forces that brought our friendship into formation.

“I don’t care where we go, just make a decision already!” I said through the phone as I sat at my computer thumbing through the links of resorts she had just sent me. I couldn’t comprehend why it was so difficult to make a decision on where to blow a bunch of money.

“Mer, I’m not just going to go anywhere.”

“They all look the same to me. Big blue ocean, beach cabanas and free drinks.”

I could not grasp the detail and fine-tooth combing it entails when one is booking a vacation, let alone an all-inclusive vacation. The closest I had ever been to a fancy holiday was the horrific family vacation to Branson when I was 16, where I read The Hobbit 3 times to escape being around everyone and fought incessantly with my sisters over who was going to win the next round of American Idol. I was more of the grab-my-sleeping bag, a couple of packages of hot dogs and a tent type of girl. Thanks to my dad.

“I’m not going to spend a week in the asshole of Mexico because you’re impatient. Look at the link I just texted you, it’s really nice.”

I sighed heavily and typed the link into my browser and within 3 seconds I was sold. The rooms, the view, the exotic music playing on the website. Yeah, sploosh.

“So this is in the price range, huh? That’s fucking awesome.”

“Ummm not exactly. It’s like 3 times what you said you could spend.”

Womp, womp. “That’s gay.”

“We’ll figure it out, I’ll call the agent in the morning and see if he can recommend anything. Night.”

I woke up around 8 and headed to class. I was still in business school full-time and if we ended up actually going on this vacation and not just talking about it, I’d be going over summer break, which was about a month away. As I was sitting in my Accounting class my phone buzzed. I indiscreetly pretended to get something out of my book bag and looked at my phone. “Pack your bags fucker.”

After class let out, I returned the text message with a phone call. “Are you being serious? Are we really going? The resort we looked at last night?”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaybe…”

“Holy shit!” But then it hit me. “How am I going to pay for that? I thought you said it was way more expensive than what I could spend.”

“Well, it’s already booked and there’s no refunds so I guess you’ll just have to figure it out in the next month. A client’s calling me, I gotta go.”

She hung up. “Dick!”

I put my phone in my pocket, walked back to class and wondered how in the hell I was going to make this happen. I guarantee if the roles were reversed and I pulled a move like that, she’d vag punch me so hard I’d be feeling it for days.

Regardless, a month later, after forgetting I needed to renew my passport and getting it in the mail 2 days before we were supposed to leave, the alarm was going off at 2 a.m. on June 28, 2007 so I could hop a plane to Mexico, where my life would change forever.

To be continued…


My family genes go like this: Not-so-tall people, with petite features and an un-over-exaggeration of all body parts…Except my Grandmother’s nose. Whoever got blessed with that facial appendage has one defined cranial attribute. (Ah-hem. Dad)

Ever since I can remember, I have always desperately wanted to fill out a pair of jeans so I could deter the verbal exclamations from family members, friends and total strangers. With every “You’re sooooooo skinny” I yearned to be the exact opposite. Even at the age 10, hearing those words left me feeling not good enough and different from the people around me. Hell, even my twin sisters that were two years younger than me, though suffering from the same chicken-leg plight as myself, seemed to have an slight, un-little boyish curve to their stature.

In grade school, it wasn’t too much of an issue. Until 5th grade thrust me from a summer of getting dirty in the woods and being concerned with mapping out how the unfortunate squirrel in the driveway died by piecing together it’s dry bones, to thinking “holy shit, half these girls have boobs and now I’m really concerned that my calves don’t fill out these magenta stretch pants!”

Then middle school happened and I wanted to kill myself on a daily basis. My friends and classmates were everything I was not. When they started getting pretty and sloughed off the awkward tween phase, I was pleading with God to shrink my cheer-leading uniform so the guy I was crushing on would notice me. God apparently deleted that voice-mail before he listened to it.

Enter high school. Holy mind fuck. I remember sitting in my junior year history class and Mr. Gelhert was talking about society’s version of a perfect woman and he asked the class what the ideal body type was. I kid you not, everyone turned around and pointed to me. In that moment, my anger towards body image began.

Why was I pissed off that my entire class gave a public display of ego boosting…isn’t that what everyone at that age wants? I’ve always been “weird”, so we’ll just chalk it up to my weirdness factor. I was pissed because according to my teenage rational, I didn’t really have that much control over my high metabolism or ability to be able to eat anything and not gain weight. But more importantly, I had dropped about 10 pounds that year due to some traumatic events taking place in my family and no one bothered to ask if I was O.K. I wasn’t eating, my depression had me skipping school weekly just so I could sleep for 18 hours straight and if I did manage to even get my ass to class, I was quiet, withdrawn and on the verge of tears at any give moment.

It seemed everyone had an opinion on what I looked like, but they couldn’t see the actual living person behind those looks.

And for me, that statement is even more true today than it was at the age of 17. Most days, I feel that 95% of the people in my life are only friends with me because I’m “not-so-bad-to-look-at”. When I’m craving raw connection with another human being and desiring to exchange in moments that create memories, I am met mostly with all surface and no below. Do you know how downright shameful it is to type that?

I have a family member that suffers from an eating disorder. Watching the pain this person causes to their body and mind is heartbreaking. Not being able to help them until they truly want to help themselves is even worse. Knowing that someone else’s opinion of them developed a distorted self-image when this person was a child and that image has warped into a life threatening illness is a sobering thought.

I am sad that the most beautiful and inspiring people I’ve ever met have been societies version of “un-attractive”. I am embarrased for some women who are society’s version of “attractive” and they are the most catty, cunty and terrible people I’ve met. I’m tired of hearing men justify infidelity or explanations of breakups as “She let herself go.” or “She got fat and never did anything.” I’m nauseated when I hear women say, “He can do sooooooo much better, she’s not even that pretty.” And I can’t help but wonder what our like-a-bility factors would be if the importance of “looks” were taken out of the equation.

I wonder how many people would find me witty and enjoy my writing if I looked like the 14-year-old version of me or the 300 pound version of me. Would people still be interested in what I have to say…would my story impact anyone’s life for the better? Mercedes, Why do you even care?

Maybe the little girl inside of me is still waiting for someone to show her she is more than what she looks like. Maybe she’s still trying to prove herself worthy to the world. Or maybe she finally needs to come to terms with some things she’s been holding on to. Maybe there’s no crime in desperately wanting to be “seen”, maybe the lesson is figuring out who our audience should be.

But, maybe that’s the lesson that we all were inherently born into and learn when we hit the age that looks really don’t fucking matter. Because at that point balls sacks hang low, tits sag like a loaf of wet bread and we’re forced to see people for what lies behind those wrinkly eyes and bodies full of loose skin. Maybe at that age, we really do grasp what it means not to give a shit what people think of us.

In the meantime though, we fill our lives with how many likes and comments we get on our Facebook photos, put stock in how many people find us “desirable” and if we’re still fuckable based on the number of people we’ve slept with. If we are attractive, it trumps major character and personality flaws and gives us permission to tear down others.

This time, I’m not going to stand on my soapbox lathering bubbles of advice. Because this isn’t advice, this is one human wishing for a little more humanity for all…

So again, I repeat, I hope you get fat. With self-acceptance. So fat, that your voluptuous curves of self-actualization make you not give any fucks to what others think about your physical appearance; because when you look in the mirror with YOUR eyes, you are the image of imperfect perfection.

I hope that you get fat. With development of your hobbies. So fat, that the muffin top of things that make you happy cause you to reach for another fucking hobby muffin because…it makes you happy.

I hope you get fat. On love. With someone who is willing to look past what you can offer their eyes and feast upon something you can both build together because of who each of you are inside.

And most of all, I hope you get fat. On truth. Your truth. Because it’s the only thing that is going to open your soul to the ever-flowing worthiness you possess.

And I hope that it doesn’t take us til we’re old and gray to tip that scale.


Do not love her figure because it is pleasing to your eyes. But instead, love her figure because it feels much like you imagine heaven would; when it is pressed up against you while you sleep. Love her figure because you are familiar with each and every spot that can take her breath away and send chills throughout her body with one touch. Love her figure precisely for what it is, not what you would wish it to be.

Do not love her skin because it is youthful, blemish-free and un-tainted. But instead, love her skin for the way it flushes when she is angry or the way it blushes when she finds herself embarrassed. Love her skin because it is the canvas in which her life story will be painted. The wrinkles that will begin to appear around her mouth will be from the countless moments she spent smiling. The small lines that blanket her forehead will be indicators of goofy faces, moments of passion and proof she is a living, breathing, woman…so divinely made and even more divinely executed.

Love her for how she wears her clothes, not for the price of the wardrobe or how well put together it makes her look. Love her because that pair of jeans you absolutely hate, makes her feel invincible. Love her because when she feels good about the fabric kissing her skin, her confident swagger is enough to stop an army. Love her because rather than cater to your ideas of “sexy” she is donning yellow rain boots with her black cocktail dress or wearing her favorite floral skirt to go grocery shopping. Yes, love a woman who makes herself feel like a woman, not one who looks to you to dictate the definition for her.

Love her, not for the size of her bra, her score on the SAT or her IQ. Love her in-spite of every number in existence used to define her. Love her for what she has created, the person she has chosen to become separate of her up-bringing, her merciless toiling of developing exactly what it is that makes her, her.

Love her, not because she is beautiful. But because her true beauty resides in the tears she cries, the secrets she hides and the fire burning when you gaze into her eyes. Love the beauty in her perfect imperfection. Love intensely that of which she is the most insecure. Love the beauty that comes from raw, disheveled moments, not the ones that come from minutes spent in front of the mirror. Love the oddities, the quirks and the things that could cause you to go quite mad.

Love her, not for the sound of her voice, but for how she uses that voice to create, express and soothe. Love her because she has her own voice and doesn’t adopt yours as the only indicator of reason. Love her because she thinks enough to ask questions, though the questions may seem silly or illogical to you. Love her because she can open your mind and heart…if you let her.

To truly love a woman takes courage. It takes shedding of the ego and an opening of the soul to see how undeniably magnificent she is.

Love her, because she is everything you are not.


“We all want magic. We all want a sense of mystery and power, of cosmic order in our lives. We want to feel our primeval heritage as children of earth and sky. Astrology can give us that, and give it without demanding that we surrender our reason in return. All we have to do is look.” – Steven Forrest The Inner Sky

Astrology. It may be the one thing, aside from the quest of truth, that has enraptured my heart and soul. And perhaps the introduction of it into my life, has added depth to that quest. Who knows, but it’s definitely working for me.

In astrology, we study birth charts. The birth chart or natal chart is basically a cosmic baby picture of you. It’s a map of where everything was in the heavens the moment you were born. It indicates what energies you were naturally born into, the things that will come easily for you and the things that will present challenges. It is ripe with options and makes many doors available for you to open. It shows your areas of growth, and if you believe in past lives, it shows you what you have mastered in previous lives, the things that you may use as a crutch in this lifetime.

It is not a pre-determined crystal ball dripping with binds of fate. It is simply your individual journey cheat sheet. A glimpse into your potential, should you choose to let it help you navigate through life. Its usage is synonymous for growth and self-discovery. A way to truly see ourselves, a way to elevate above confusion, a way to acceptance.

And if that all sounds a little hippy to you and you’re uninterested…Don’t worry, I’ll get back to relationships and profanity in the next post. 😉

However, for those of you that have had some spark of fascination ignite when you think about the stars and a hidden meaning in them for you…thus begins a little spice to I took her advice. My hope is that through my own sponging of all this star shit, I can help you all discover more awesomeness about yourselves as well.

Like several people I know, I used to think astrology was the few short sentences broken down by each zodiac sign on the glossy page in Cosmo. It SO is not.

I used to think since I was born under the sign Aquarius, that all the adjectives linked to an Aquarian was the only accurate description of me as a whole. Wrong again.

It’s not that simple. The zodiac sign you were born under, or sun sign, is only a small part of the entire picture. What picture? That birth chart thingy I was talking about earlier. When I first found that out, the fact that I am not lumped in with all the millions, maybe billions (How many people are on the earth right now anyways?) of other Aquarius peeps out there…well, I thought: “BADASS.”

So what are the other pieces?

In the book Inner Sky by Steven Forrest, he puts it simply. There are three main factors that make up who we are. The sun sign, the moon sign and the ascendant (rising sign). The sun is your identity. How you shine in this world. The moon is your soul behind that identity and the ascendant is the mask that identity wears to the world.

For Example.

Sun: The sun is the very essence of life, it is our ego. Our identity’s appetite, it must be fed. My sun is Aquarius. Steven Forrest breaks down the Aquarius archetype and explains that we Aquarians crave freedom. Through individuality. We desire to be able to choose our own path. We embody the “I do what I want” mentality. We scoff at orders from another, we shall not be moved. We yearn to cultivate absolute loyalty to truth. The Aquarian catchphrase? “I will be sane, even if that means everyone else thinks I am crazy.” Humanitarians and refusal to “sell-out” we would rather see death upon our doorstep than succumb to conformity within society. Does the term “freak”, “free-spirit” or “fairy on crack” ring a bell? All phrases I’ve been called. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Moon: The moon functions as feelings and emotional response mechanism. It is our deeply embedded sensitivities and the language of our soul. To be happy, we must activate our moon. Otherwise, life will be void of purpose and fulfillment contrary to what it may appear on the surface. My moon is Capricorn. Any one that reads up on a cap moon will see a general consensus in the world of astrology…Cap moons aren’t the best placement for a moon and are possibly one of the most difficult to define. But with enough digging, I found an author that interpreted my moon for what it is. Eric Francis, in his article The Emperor’s Full Moon, depicts a Cap moon as such; “The lives of those with a Capricorn moon are almost always characterized, at least, for a while, by deep pain, loss and suffering, but they will be the first people to tell you that what doesn’t kill you makes you strong. Pain has turned them into survivors. When it works to the common good, they become unusually adept, practical humanitarians. When it works to everyone’s detriment, they can retreat into themselves, putting up active defenses that seem aggressive. They may pass alone the notion that pain builds character by their action. They may even convince you they have no heart. Nothing could be further from reality: these are just some of the most sensitive people alive; it’s just that they hide their pain so well. Part of how this can be done is by compartmentalizing their feelings. Cap moons are among the best feeling compartmentalizers in the business.” If you are a Cap moon, check out the full article by Eric Francis here.

Ascendant: Steven Forrest notes that the ascendant is “how you dawn” on other people. It is your style and the way you interact socially with the world around you. My ascendant is Cancer. One of my favorite general astrological sites to visit is Cafe Astrology. Here it paints a Cancer Ascendant as: “Attracting people who need care, understanding and encouragement. Devotion and maintaining emotional soul-connections to life is the heart of your approach to living. You are very sympathetic in both the sense that you feel for others and also in the sense of sympathetic resonance. Your own feelings and moods will often reflect the dominant feeling tone in your environment. You absorb the atmosphere around you and thrive in surroundings that are home-like, personal, supportive, and cooperative. When out of balance you are hypersensitive to hurts and slights, are prone to extreme moodiness, worry, and self-pity, and/or feel like an insatiable needy child yourself. Self-nurturing and self-responsibility are thus extremely important for you to develop in order to bring out your best.”

As you can see, there is a lot more to who you are than just the zodiac sign you were born under. They say knowledge is power. In my opinion, There is no power greater than self-actualization and astrology has been one very solid and bright flashlight for me. Stay tuned for more cosmic goodies.


More and more as of recently, I’ve been coming across this phrase, “The advice we have the most trouble following is our own.” If I had a beer for every time I’ve said that, I’d be super wasted. To add to that, my belief is that everyone wholeheartedly, deep- down knows what’s best for them. But we let our insecurities, the opinions of others and the “shoulds” of life turn that all knowing, bad-ass, life compass into a shit show of fuckery.

And I’m not saying that to discount how hard it can be to truly do what WE want in life. Let’s face the music. We like to do things that make other people proud, some of us don’t exactly like stepping on toes and we find the comfort of not making any waves WAY easier to deal with than pissing our family off. Or we stay in romantic relationships because we’re too afraid to be alone, we think indifference is better than nothing or we really don’t want to hurt the other person.

WELCOME TO MY LIFE. Oh yes. I would not be writing this if everything in my story was pink tulle and baby otter yawns. Failed marriage? Check. Jobs I’ve made myself sick over because I hated them so god damn much even though it bought me things? Check. Not doing the things my soul ached for deep down because I was scared what my family and friends would think? Check. Doing things my soul REALLY didn’t want to because I wanted to please the people around me? Check, check, CHECK!

So did I fucking do anything about it? Yeeeeeeeeeees. However, I just want to say one thing before I spill the beans.

For those of us stuck in the “should” stage of life, it takes a ridiculously conscious effort to live. We’re doing the best with what we have at that given moment. We’re taking our punches as they come and sprinkling flower seeds wherever we feel is best fitted. Even if those feelings come from the desires of other people. It isn’t until we finally grasp that what we want, feel and need trumps ALL that we begin to move from “should”, to “I don’t care if you like it or not, I’m fucking doing it.” Or if you are less foul-mouth inclined like myself, “I owe you zero explanation, this is MY life.”

So how do you pull the rip chord on the “shoulds” and just do whatever the fuck you want?

1. Figure out the general idea of what you want out of life. Go ahead, daydream. Write down whatever the hell you want. But make sure it comes straight from your soul and isn’t tainted with the wishes of any one else. Don’t have the slightest idea on how to go about that? Pay attention to the things you think about when you’re driving in your car. When the music is on and it seems as if your mind is floating above. That’s where you’ll find your desires. Pay attention to your dreams, go read your journal. Don’t have a journal? Get one. Write in it. Become aware of what’s swirling around in that fog upstairs. It’s there for a reason.

2. Think about what’s keeping you from doing those things. Is it your relationship? Do you feel that you may let your family down? Do you lack the financial support? Do you think it’s so ludicrous and impossible that you write it off as just another crazy dream? Write that shit down, too. They say ignorance is bliss…bullshit. Ignorance is ignorance. If you can’t define what it is that’s scaring the shit out of you or blocking you from the life of your dreams, how do you expect yourself to overcome it? Now you know where the term “You better recognize” came from. Maybe.

3. Accept that when you fully believe in a desire, the universe has a really funny way of coming through for you. It may mean sacrificing something else in your life, but it’s really not a sacrifice at all. It may just be that whatever is in your life isn’t serving you anymore and you need to let it go in order to fulfill your purpose, dream, wish, etc.

4. Acknowledge the fear, because 9 times out of 10 you’ll feel it. If you weren’t afraid of something, you would have already done what it is you wanted. Say hi to the fear. Let it sit next to you. Maybe create a secret handshake with it. Whatever you need to do to let it know you know that it’s there. And then just fucking do what you were gonna do anyways. Fear is an illusion that our insecurity stirs up to mind fuck us. So we must mind fuck it right back.

5. Realize that the place you are in right now is only setting you up for your next move. You needed the life you have right this second to catapult you to your next destination. You may hate your current place and throw yourself on the ground convulsing into bratty tantrums, but that WILL change. I promise. NOTHING stays the same. Do not be naive to think that you are stuck. Forever. Pssssst…also remember the more that you resist something, the more it persists. Smart dude Carl Jung said that. Swoon.

6. You WILL be tempted to seek the advice of lots of people. Cool, do it if you feel the need. But the more you seek answers outside of yourself, the more you’re going to get. And I bet you won’t like them. So yeah, maybe you should just consult the super-hero bad-ass inside of you and save yourself the torment.

Ready to do a little yanking? I think you should 😉

Oh, and I always wanted to quit my corporate job and move to an island and do cool shit. So I did. In T minus 36 days I’ll be on an island doing cool shit. So stay tuned. 🙂