TAFKATSMITW comes home from his top-secret seminar and his wife says, your mother called.
He laughs and says, we were just talking about her.
He goes through the house with a bucket of fairy dust or something, maybe love, tossing it like confetti.
He sees the cracks in his daughter’s evil adolescent facade, he convinces himself. This too shall pass, he thinks, in a good way.
He gets along with his wife.
His mother calls and tries to negate him for an hour with her negativity and he shuts that down too. All the right buttons were pressed, but the dancing chicken didn’t dance and his energy is not depleted when he hangs up.
All sorts of things.
He prays to Nikola Tesla he’ll figure out how to channel this energy.
Different group with the seminar this time, bunch of guys. He wondered if it was because he always ended up with a woman on his lap in the other group, in the constellations they did. Or hugging. But it turns out that’s the way these things work – he ended up with a guy on his lap this time. And his arm around another.
TAFKATSMITW is more surprised than you or I, believe me.
He laughed all the way home.
You know what his dream home used to be? A zombie-proof bunker.
They did this guided meditation, among a million other things. Blah-blah spiral staircase blah breathing. There’s a house, what’s it look like? Smell? Who’s in there? The punchline is it’s your heart. Does the door open easily? Added bonus: you can kick people out who don’t belong there.
His is made of cedar and glass and looks like a cathedral and the doors are huge and swing open easily. His family’s in there and favorite people and when he sees his grandmother and her husband, whom he never knew, he has to cry.
It looks like a church, only with a Tesla coil on top instead of a cross, crackling.
The zombies were all in his imagination.