For the longest time, I was vapor. Floating. Years passed; boredom crept in. There was so much to be done.

Then: a tiny shard, jutting out from the moist silence of Earth’s abdomen. I was here. I grew taller, harder, more translucent. Brothers and sisters sprung up around me. We wept in unison. Rip us from the ground, I begged to the darkness, choking with energies unspent. We have to help them.

Before I knew you, I felt your presence. I couldn’t wait to heal you from that time your mother made you wear a horrible itchy sleeveless dress to your friend Rachel’s bat mitzvah in 1998, a rash blossoming that would corrupt both your right armpit and your middle chakras. I dreamed of the moment that you would place me and my siblings in a line down the center of your prone body, and together we’d contact the angels to see what they think about you maybe becoming a vegan. I desperately anticipated offering you psychic protection in that searing moment when you’d find out, while out celebrating hitting 200K followers on Instagram, that Ashley Benson from Pretty Little Liars has 13.9 million followers, and you don’t even know anyone who watches Pretty Little Liars.



On the day you walked through the door of my home on Santa Monica Boulevard, my atoms shrieked into the thick, patchouli-scented air. You touched me, smiling. Then you touched the others, too. I looked away. Together, I reminded myself, you and I would heal the world of its negativity. But time was running out. You seemed distracted, like you had somewhere else to be. “Oh no, I’m just looking,” you laughed. Years later, I would remember this. How could you laugh?

“Buy me,” I gasped, finally, as you walked towards the light. “I’m only $349.99.”

You didn’t seem to hear.