Felicity Windsor's 3 steps to get motivated, such as, the ever resounding advice to set the hand brake when parking on a hill, and conversely, disengage it when making a hot dog run. On the Night of the Long Knives, best advice is to hide under the bed. And don't think hiding in the console piano is safe, because the brownshirts will strafe that SOB.
Just wait until a lull in Trump's tweets to come out and Jew around.
1. Breathe. Are you breathing, gentle reader? Well breathe deeper, then. Deeper still, and do it from the diaphragm.
2. Exhale negative energy. And don't point that at anyone, by the way. "This is my debt" you say, warning them, and you watch them sidestep, or "this is my A1C numbers", which causes bystanders to flee in horror.
3. Acknowledge a higher power. They even tell the Alkies to do this, as a step towards perspective, and just go somewhat in mind of a singular entity Creator. That's right friends, it's the infamous one from the Twelve Step program.
It relieves a burden, you know? A boost in faith has positive side effects, such as giving a motive fondant for our optimism.
I forgot that we were going to broach Causes of Suffering, like Sean Hannity and pandemics and so forth. Calamities. Bad things that happen to good people, from the sticking place, the hind end screwed to. But a cog on the great gears of the mechanism, with springs of wishings, unmaskings and promiscuity, sort of a dull obscurity that gets spray painted all over everything.
The experience itself is a suffering, a pain of sorts, and butt-hurting, Amerigo wearing a uniform like someone from the Death Star board of directors.
Felicity Windsor telling us worry is a kidney stone, a carbuncle, instead of a Carpe Diem, a call to Get It On, but without other forms of discoursing, even idle aimless intercourse, the Tortoise and the Hair just keep going on their way.
A bit of cleavage.
Sizzle.
The hind end: the beginnings of motivation pierced, brushed-over. And so much of this happens, not in respect to systemic concerns, traditions and other various institutions, social contracts, but just because one is drawing breath. Existence itself has a kind of fatalist, Quixotic quality, and you're just waiting to get your shirt collar caught by a blade of the windmill, for a trip in an ungraceful arc through the air, orange rind, or pink rind, lemon sprinkles. Mouth puckered as you sit at the office chair, taking to the keyboard, still butt-hurting about something you didn't even absorb properly, something that was "no skin off your nose" in the first place, but improperly, wrongly butt hurt.
Felicity Windsor, I find your lack of faith disturbing.
Anakin, don't try it. I have the high ground.
"Half-soldier, you were the Chosen One! You weren't supposed to toss cinderblocks off the overpass!"
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