I belong to this woman’s social group. Last weekend they decided to get together to make vision boards.
That’s where everyone gathers a bunch of magazines, large pieces of poster board, scissors and glue, and you all sit around a table and cut out stuff from the magazines, like photos or text, things that represent what you want to manifest in your life, then you glue them onto the poster board in a collage of personal dreams and desires. The purpose of making one helps you envision the life you’d like to create because the act of making a vision board starts a process of manifestation.
When it’s completed, you get really excited because for a brief moment you actually believe your life will change by gluing pictures onto a board, so you proudly hang it up somewhere in your house as motivation. After a while it starts to taunt you because you realize it takes a lot more fucking effort than that, but you don’t do anything else to manifest those desires; you’re too damn scared and insecure to try, even though you realize death is imminent and you should do everything you can to squeeze every drop out of life. You know you’d have nothing to lose, but you still do nothing, so you go back to believing you’re a loser because you never do anything to change your life… except make vision boards with a woman’s group.
But it’s really uplifting.
I knew I wasn’t gonna go. How on earth would I find a photo in a magazine that represents I want to kill myself… or become a comic… either one. Then I started thinking about what these women would add to their vision boards; what a suburban housewife would want to manifest into her life. Like, could they put on there they’d like to tell that bitch Karen, who runs the PTA she can stick it up her ass? Do you think that could be found in a magazine? What would they put on there to manifest other than new hand towels and a trip to Cancun?
The more I thought about it, the more I concluded that it wouldn’t matter what the hell they put on their vision boards, anything would be a step up from their current suburban existence. Once they’ve popped their Prozac and had a glass of wine, new hand towels probably sound fucking amazing.
I haven’t participated with these ladies yet, because frankly, I’m scared the mundane will rub off on me. It’d probably be safe to assume some of the women in the group aren’t on hormone replacement therapy either, so the uteri of the ones who aren’t, would constantly be trying to sync up with the ones who are, causing a lot of emotional confusion and defying the earth’s gravitational pull. Then no one would eat the deviled eggs.
You just know there’s always one or two whack jobs in these kinds of groups, too. One woman, who probably took too much hormone replacement therapy and not enough Prozac, is always starting trouble on the group’s social media page, which I find immensely entertaining as long as I can view it from the safe distance of my smartphone; I wouldn’t want to have to interact with this lady face to face.
Maybe when it comes down to it, I’m afraid I’ll have a good time at one of these things and then what’ll I do?
Naw… I’m just not cut out for these kinds of interactions.
Get it? “cut out” *snicker *snort.