Drinking the same Kool-Aid
For the past two years, I’ve been getting an email from the Universe every weekday morning. It usually reassures me that I’m on the right path, that it loves me, and that all my dreams are coming true. It reminds me that I’m queen shit, a privileged being, and the best thing to exist ever in its existence.
Here’s a sample:
One’s ability to stop kidding themselves, Elly, is what brings about the greatest breakthroughs, fastest comebacks, and happiest feet.
No goat jokes, please –
The Universe is always excessively positive, sometimes ends its emails with seemingly made up words like “Jambo!” and is often encouraging me to buy its books and see it on tour.
Turns out, The Universe isn’t a mystical, infinite concept of what binds everything and everyone together in the world and galaxy, in some form or another. The Universe is actually some guy named Mike Dooley, a bald, wiry, 50-year-old man who used to run a t-shirt company in Florida.
If Mike Dooley wasn’t The Universe, he’d probably be that guy at the office who bikes in every day and then doesn’t change out of his biking onesie. He simply pulls a pair of jeans over it. At his desk. With his helmet still on. And he smells like terrible body odour.
He’s that guy. And yet, he’s somehow managed to delude enough people into believing that he’s the voice behind The Universe. And make a really good living off of it based on his book sales and his tour dates, which are $200 a piece.
I really want to hate this guy. Actually, I really do hate this guy. But the thing is, we drink the same Kool-Aid.
I was never raised to believe in anything because my family wasn’t religious. I never went to Hebrew school or studied the Torah. Growing up, I used to pray to a God (capital because I follow CP style) that I had pieced together based on what my Christian babysitter had told me, and that cartoon version of the grey-bearded man in the clouds. I never went to a spiritual leader to answer any questions I may have had. Basically, I prayed out of superstition and guilt. The idea of a God was pure comfort.
As I grew older, I started to realize that spirituality is something that’s entirely personal. Just like your brain and your thoughts. It’s something you control. So I decided to believe in The Universe.
To me, The Universe is when you choose not to believe in coincidences. It’s energy, and timing and synergy. It’s spirit animals (particularly birds), and signs and rainbows and full moons and meditation. It’s Rob Brezny’s horoscopes and these people and connecting with everyone on some level. It’s a whole bunch of embarrassingly flaky shit. But often, it helps me through the day.
I struggle with the fact that I’m a deeply cynical person who is a spiritual flake at heart. I don’t want to be remotely associated with a guy who was a talking head in The Secret. I don’t want to make friends in yoga. I want to continue to be a cunt-faced bitch who believes in The Universe. Maybe that’ll change over time. But for now, I’ll keep reading my daily email from nut jobs like Mike Dooley, half accepting and half resenting the fact that he and I are bound in our beliefs.