My name is Jessica. I'm on the verge of a Mystical Hipster Breakthrough.

I'm incredibly excitable these days for numerous reasons that are both silly and serious. My anxiety ebbs and flows with utter ridiculousness. I think that this is probably the kind of feeling that Warren Zevon had when he wrote, "Werewolves of London." I'm not going to act like I know the story of his writing the song, but I can't imagine that he would anticipate that it's in my top 20 favorite songs, easily. I recently got my own copy of, "Excitable Boy," and let me just say that it's good. Yeah, I wanted it because "my" song is on it, because I've recently started collecting vinyl again, and because I was feeling my inner mystical hipster emerging from a cocoon of a seriously confused and bummed divorcee. 

It's true y'all. I'm embracing my utter mystically-hipstery tendencies with reckless abandon. I went to Whole Foods. I spent twelve dollars on African Black soap. This is HAPPENING, people. 

So, what does it mean? 

First, I spent a relatively large amount of money on a women's retreat this weekend that totally nourished me in a way that I never expected. I cried some serious tears about the last nine months of my life and laughed a lot harder than I had in a long time. A woman a barely know wrote me a love letter that was probably the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me. I learned about a culture that I knew nothing about and honestly, I'm completely humbled by some women's struggles and completely grateful for my own. I can't believe that the government doesn't subsidize this shit for every person in The United States. I'd pay a "soul empowering," tax, wouldn't you? Barring complete financial ruin next year, I'm going to try to sponsor someone that can't afford to go, because every woman needs to know that there's another woman out there that: loves her, needs her, relates to her, and is encouraged by her. When did we stop learning that we're all made of the same stars? 

Second, I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself about the amount of things that I own and the kind of things that I buy. It's true, I still have a serious amount of things at my ex's apartment that need some ruthless decision-making, but when you live in your childhood bedroom comfortably for six months, you start to really understand that you don't need much to be a functioning adult that contributes to society in a meaningful way. In my last clothing purge, I tried to avoid the reality of the money that I wasted on outer adornments, but it's hard when it's staring at you through clear plastic garbage bags. I vowed never again and since then I've scrutinized my clothing purchases so much that I could probably count on one hand where I've made that kind of investment since.

Third, I bought myself a divorce tattoo. The permanence of this ending is so real to me through this piece. Although the red rose seems cliche, it's such a constant reminder that I'm not going to give up on love: especially now...when I'm starting to fall in love with myself for the first time in EVER. Although I'm still skeptical about their newest album (why abandon the banjo guys? It was your thing! I liked your thing), Mumford and Sons reentered my life and delivered the philosophy that I've tried to live everyday since I first heard it.

"Where You Invest Your Love, You Invest Your Life."

In short, the person that wrote Frou Frou Shit and brought you to this place is kind of gone, dudes. She was funny, smart and witty, but she was also sad, angry, and mean. I was telling one of the facilitators this past weekend that it cost me me so much to be angry and mean, but it really costs me nothing to be kind. That doesn't mean that there aren't times that my mind tells me that I should pay the fee, but as don Miguel Ruiz says, among other things,

Always Do Your Best

Be Impeccable with Your Word

I have no idea who said it first, Warren Zevon or Lee Lipsenthal, but Enjoy Every Sandwich, too.