You Ruined My Night Vision But I Still Have a Twitchy Third Eye

A Mis-Guided Meditation for the Spiritually Dubious

Cast your mind: a soft vinyl crackle, faint cosmic whoosh, someone muttering “namaste-ish” in the background....and TIG softly bleating your spiritual name into an empty moonshine jug.Welcome, sacredly shattered soul...You’re here because something broke. A dream, a trust, your LED fairy lights... maybe even your dignity.And yet — here you are. One eye twitching. The third one. The weird one.So today, we meditate not in clarity…But in the beautiful, fluorescent static of survival.Find a position that reminds your body you’re still technically alive.Sit, lie down, slump over dramatically — we’re not judging.Breathe in.Breathe out.Realize your breath sounds suspiciously like whispering ghosts from last year's Spring Break mushroom trip to South Padre Island. That’s fine.Picture your past self — the version of you before it happened. Smile gently. That version is gone.And good riddance.You’re not here to rebuild the same person. You’re here to build something more… twitchy.Focus your attention on the space between your eyebrows.You may feel pressure, vibration, or regret.Excellent.Imagine a little flashlight flickering somewhere behind that space.
It’s not strong.
But it’s honest.You ruined your night vision, maybe…But now, this little third eye twitch is your new compass.It doesn’t blink.It buzzes.And when it twitches, it means: “Go this way, weird soul.”Ask your third eye: “What do I know now, that I couldn’t have known before I lost everything?”Wait for the twitch. Don’t think — just feel the flicker.Maybe it says: “Stop pretending you’re okay.”Or: “You are meant for something you can’t predict.”Or maybe: “Eat something. You’re emotionally fasting again.”Trust the twitch. It’s wiser than your brain. And far more committed to your well-being.
Breathe in.Breathe out.Rinse off yesterday's unstoppable pigeon misfortune.Breathe in.Breathe out.As we end, notice:
You’re still breathing.
You’re still pulsing.
You’re still funny and weird and kind of stubborn. And you realize Carl didn't mean to break your remote start button.You’ve got a twitch. And a little light.That’s all a goat mystic needs.So appreciate the spiritual bleat that brought you here and know you're always welcome, though watch out for the sea urchin. He's got a vicious sting.Nama'stay-the-hell-outta-stuff-that-will-break-you-again.Cloven-hoofed spiritual defender of the insistently young & morally naive, out.

Go On . . . Sign Up . . . Resistance is Futile . . . Just Do It.

Meet the Feed The PuppetTM Crew:

  • Sri Sri Gollum Baba - Known by those who don't care as the "Lunatic Guru". Undernourished warlord of the spiritually unclaimed. Allegedly from the foothills of the northern Cascade mountains, once possessed by an earring he found under a bus stop on Queen Anne Hill, in Seattle, and completely unintelligible unless accompanied by TIG.

  • TIG - Short for Totally Integrated Goat, or Tiny Inter-dimensional Gnocchi, we're not exactly sure. He just showed up one day, wearing aviators and riding a slightly emotionally insecure Roomba. It turns out that TIG & Sri Sri Gollum Baba once shared a paper straw.

  • Clutch, the Carrier Pigeon - Pretty sure he got his name from the second seal pup he strangled under the Venice Beach pier. The most somewhat-reliable delivery guy you never knew existed but who will recover your pickled hog's feet from the depths of the Strait of Gibraltar.....gangster AF, and the beak you definitely want on your bowling team.

  • Carl - Also a pigeon (and Clutch's muscle) but don't accuse him of that when he's been snorting expired communion wafers. He will, straight up, infect your family tree with something that defies scientific discovery or peer review. But if you need someone to stoically give the middle feather to the IRS in your tax return....I'm just sayin'....

  • Everyone else whose identity must be hidden for the sake of left-turn signals, unscheduled snot rocket launches and all that is holy. You know who you are, you magnificent bastards.

The Legal Shit . . . 'Cuz the 80s & Al Gore's Rhythm Made It A Soul-Crushing Requirement:

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