Zen is this

Zen, as I found out in Hardcore Zen, is simply this. What you’re doing now. The poop you just left in the crapper. The stains on the t.p. That zit you can feel just below the surface. Zen is reality. Reality is you. You don’t exist, but you’re everywhere. It makes sense, of course, because it doesn’t.

Zen is the ugly bitch advertising homes in Florida in the sidebar of my Facebook page. Seriously, if I was on any kind of drug right now, I’d be scared of her. She’s sort of demonic looking. Her name is Missi. Yes, with an “i.” [shudders]

Zen is my son wiping his boogers on my shirt, thinking I’m too dumb to realize his “hug” had ulterior motives.

Zen is the tub faucet dripping while you’re on the crapper and you wondering why you haven’t fixed it… or maybe Zen is the fact that it’s not really broken and doesn’t need fixing at all.

Zen is a mysterious printout on my printer that has garbage symbols followed by the quote, “go forth and spread cuddly evil.”

Zen is me, sitting in the geeky darkness of my office, wondering how that stack of about 20 unread books got on my floor and understanding that I’m probably going to finish them all by the end of the year. It’s not a plan, it’s an understanding. I just accept what is.

Zen is people thinking I’m an asshole for the stuff I write on here. Or too forward. Or too revealing. But what I write here just is. Because that’s all it can be.

Zen is that I don’t understand people while at the same time I understand them perfectly. I think it’s that I don’t want to understand. I don’t want to see things through the lens of their reality. Because it’s all the same reality. It’s mine, too. And it’s not mine.

Zen is me thinking it’s time to get my day started. Zen is me going into the bathroom, staring at my unwashed, naked self in the mirror, judging my aging corpse, and Zen is standing on the scale, facing some harsh realities as I sigh at the digital readout. But that’s okay. Because I can’t be anyone but me. And I’ll reassure myself that I’ll only have 2 pieces of bacon tomorrow instead of 3. It’s a lie, but that’s Zen, too.