Enlightenment in a Decaying Empire
A weekend to remember!
You can bet, a different Drelda Harrington left the weekend retreat of the Institute of Astral Awakening than the one who went in.
Who’s more awake now, Laurena Sinclair?
My personal astral guide? Oh—Astrid Cassiopeia. Swedish model, TV star, and creator of the Nya Nya Personal Cleansing Products line—you may have heard of her? I hate to wreck your day.
Of course it was all “free”—which means, like everything, you just have to figure out who and how to pay. I’m good at that. But as far as the “free” personal astral guide, I wasn’t too happy about the bidding match I got into with Imelda Sloan and Greer Murray, and of course Brock pitched one of his patented tantrums about it. Good God, the man thinks nothing of dropping ten grand on a golf weekend in the Caymans, but bitches about a few bucks for enlightenment? Okay, maybe more than a few—but he wouldn’t know enlightenment if it bit him in the butt. Some things, like getting your brat into Southern Cal, are just worth the crazy money, that’s all there is to it.
You should have seen Madame Cassiopeia—in a radiant blue sky gown, her hair glittering with stars. She floated, she radiated serenity, and believe me, if you haven’t seen her come into a room, you haven’t seen perfectly accessorized wokeness.
Oh God, I want her life!
I filled up three bags with Nya Nya products in the lobby before I even registered. Boy, was I awake—and at war with toxins! Worth every penny.
I signed in, and picked up my Tranquility Packet, but it took three tries to get a room that didn’t block my chakras. I’m sorry, but look at me—do I look like somebody you can stiff with a weak aura room? Save it for Laurena Sinclair. She’ll be at the next one, I promise you.
I will say, the spa was fabulous. I could feel the toxins just washing away. Toxins between your toes—who knew? Of course I had to pick up a toe-space detoxifier. Frankly I’ve had better massages—Roderigo seemed distracted—but the pedicure was phenomenal. The little Asian girl, I’m not sure what she was, was so cute. And the Vedic mud bath was to die for.
You know me, I’m not one to brag—but facts are facts, I look good in yoga gear, and don’t think those bitches weren’t checking me out. And I’ll tell you something, I’ll go chromosome to chromosome with any of those fakes any time they want to have a DNA power match. Northern European with African and Native American undertones, in a perfect blend? And 2.3% Neanderthal? Packing a punch, baby.
And I know I had a higher step count over three days than any of them—and heart rate, perspiration level, bowel regulation, and liver metabolism? Killer. I can show you the print-outs.
Once the sessions started, I didn’t actually see much of Madama Cassiopeia, but that’s okay—check the record, she was my personal astral guide, end of story. Nobody ever accused me of not getting what I paid for. She did drop by for a few minutes at one session, and I got a selfie with her. And the girl she sent was good, so who’s complaining? And I have to say, I surprised even myself at the level of awakeness I attained. Guru level, I’m just being honest.
It really is amazing to me how most people walk around asleep. Wasting their élan vital on some loser job, never opening their Third Eye, never liberating their etheric cord. Wake up, people! Don’t be a sucker for maya. Haven’t you heard you project your own reality? Speaking of which, I did a total of three astral projections during the retreat—I don’t care what you say, they were real—which you can compare to Laurena Sinclair who has never left this plane, I’d put money on it. You think she’s read a word of Gurdjieff or Ouspensky? Dream on. I couldn’t put down The Strange Life of Whoever it was. You don’t believe it? It’s on the bookshelf right by my bed. If you came over, you could see it, and lots of other books too—I’m just saying.
I’m serious, “The Holistic Cosmos,” “Connecting with Your Infinite Power Source,” “Old Age as a Toxin”—those were spectacular sessions. And I enjoyed the workshop of “Non-Acquiring” so much I dropped $1200 at the Non-Acquiring Merchandise booth. And Cro-Magnon diet? I’m all in. Brock can have his Big Macs and doughnuts. He’s a heart attack waiting to happen, but does he listen to me?
The retreat absolutely changed my life. So many people sleepwalk their way through life and never really understand what it’s all about, when it’s so simple: getting what you want, being comfortable, and flushing out toxins. I can’t wait for Laurena Sinclair to see me at the next museum fundraiser. I won’t gush, I won’t strut. I’ll just kiss up to that for-profit prison money, and I’ll be serene, and just say, “It was a lovely experience, dear, I recommend it. And Madame Cassiopeia was just—I really can’t describe it,” and wait for her to ask if I have a photo, and say, “oh, I think I have one on my phone somewhere.”
Then go home and give my subtle body some love.
November 7, 2019