Things started great. There I was, sitting on a shelf at Urban Outfitters minding my own business. Just being a rock. There you were, the oldest person in the store and feeling salty about it. Having recently celebrated my 4.5 billionth birthday, I could relate. I mean, does the music need to be so loud? Does everything need to be a crop top? But I digress.
You looked at me with such hope and optimism that it seemed like we were off to a great start. When you cupped me in your hands and held me up to the light, I thought, “Okay, geologist!” I was excited to go home with you. I was excited to do what I do best: absolutely nothing.
But you had other ideas.
It started with your neighbor, the one who says “noice” unironically and calls women “females.” One day, you were carrying a bag of groceries and he shouted, “Nice mangoes!” and then laughed like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. You clasped me in your palm and said, I hope he gets hit by a mail truck. A bit harsh, but I get it. The guy has a visible Cartman tattoo. But later that week, when he crashed his electric bike into a tree and broke his femur, you grabbed me and shrieked, “We manifested it!”
Please, do not pin this on me.
What I’m trying to say is that I can’t be held responsible for your hopes, dreams, and schadenfreude. Let me be clear: You did not find that ten dollars on the ground because of me. I am not the reason your pregnancy test was negative. And do not give me credit for missing jury duty. You threw your summons in the trash and called it “standing in your power.”
Girl, they are coming for you!
I know what you’re thinking. What’s the big deal? It’s just harmless fun! But the pressure you put on me is excruciating. You watched Girlboss on Netflix and decided you wanted to become an entrepreneur. But instead of—oh, I don’t know—coming up with a business idea, you stuffed me into a dusty corner in the east side of your bedroom because you read a feng shui chart that said it was your optimal direction for success.
Let’s set aside the fact that you read the chart wrong and you’ve now put us in your worst possible direction, northeast! The point is, do I look like a goddamn career coach?
I’m a little dysregulated, I get it. But this is not the life I had planned for myself. I’m not sure if I’ve said this already, but I am basically a rock. A sexy rock, sure. But still, a rock. I was supposed to be less than this. I had zero dreams I wanted to come true. Goals? Ew! I should be loafing around somewhere in Arizona. Or sitting at the bottom of a river.
You know when people say, “dumb as a rock?” they’re pretty much talking about me. So probably, I shouldn’t be in charge of your life goals.
The madness has to stop. I am tired. And you are (literally!) rubbing me the wrong way. I can’t manifest you a raise. Or fix your posture. Or put gas in your car. Or find out who unfollowed you on Instagram. Or send your mother to voicemail. Or install your computer updates—You’ve been hitting “remind me tomorrow” for almost a year, just do it already!
We could have had something special, you know? Which is to say, we could have had the kind of relationship that human beings and minerals have had for thousands and thousands of years: no relationship at all. You admire me from afar, I sit there and look pretty. It’s a win-win.
Listen, I’m not trying to be rude. I get it. It’s hard to be a person! If I’m exhausted from your endless wishes, I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to live in a constant state of dissatisfaction. No matter how much you already have, it’s never enough, is it? I suppose that’s the price you pay for consciousness—searching for ways to distract yourself from the void of existence and the pain of being mortal. I am your way of pretending you have control over the chaos of existence.
What can I say? Sucks to be you! For the above reasons and many more, please consider this a formal termination of my employment. Effective immediately.
Mediocre vibes at best,
Your humble healing crystal
