Oh my god, I’ve fucking had it with him. I’m like, fine, you want to gas-light me like that again? Go ahead, Mara, deny the reality of my essential nature as an aspect of limitless consciousness; make me believe that I’m just my personality instead. Just go ahead. See what happens.

You really think you can confuse me about the fundamental goodness of experience by getting Becky to sleep with the waiter who I have the biggest crush on to get back at me to ditching her at the Bowery Ballroom for a hot guy? Give me a break.

I’m sorry. You must really think you’re hot shit when you make me interrupt my intimate friend-date to take an Instagram photo and then get distracted by how few likes it’s getting.

I’m just like, do you really think I’d forget that Nirvana and Samsara are one Sacred Mandala? Did you really think I’d forget that the world is simultaneously A Pure Land and a Charnel Ground?

I’m like, sorry, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the Song of my boundless compassion. Get a life.