My mother is an avid believer in The Secret—some ridiculous, pseudo spiritual self-help book that Oprah made famous back in 2006, via her weird book cult aimed at simultaneously empowering and undermining desperate housewives. The Secret is the ramblings of some Australian bitch named Rhonda Byrne, claiming that focused positive thinking can result in increased wealth, health, happiness, etc. To be rich, you have to think like a rich person. To be happy, you have to think like a happy person. Thin, a thin person, and so on. Thanks Rhonda. Someone should really get on it and tell all those starving people in Africa people to start thinking like someone who just ate a cheeseburger.
About a month ago, my mother suggested I use The Secret to “improve my love life.” (What are you getting at, Mom?) She said since she began thinking like a skinny person she’d lost five pounds. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I agreed to give it a try anyway—both to humor her and as an attempt to cure my ever-increasing boredom. I decided to use The Secret as a method of scoring the boyfriend of my dreams and object of my ultimate desire, Hamilton Morris. Hamilton is a writer from New York. I became obsessed with him through reading his column in Vice, ‘Hamilton’s Pharmacopeia,’ where he writes about weird, rare drugs and just generally being fucked-up. Hot. He also happens to be the most retardedly beautiful person on the face of the earth—that wonky nose, those lanky, awkward limbs, that uncomfortably deep voice which makes him sound like an audio cassette that melted in the sun. Kind of like a special needs person, but in a hot way. I want him so bad it hurts.
So, taking leave of my mother’s wise words, following our conversation I began thinking like the girlfriend of Hamilton Morris. I scribbled Karley Morris on all my notebooks. When I made dinner, I set Hamilton a place at the table. I talked to a picture of his face that I ripped out of Vice about my feelings and problems. I left him little notes on our pillow in the mornings saying things like, “Gone to work, didn’t want to wake you. See you this evening sweetie! Love you!!!” I even made-out with my hand in the shower on a couple occasions, imaging it was Hamilton’s perfect lips I was tonguing. It was exhausting.
Yesterday marked week three of my experiment, still with no signs of interest from my stateside lover. Not even so much as a Facebook friend request. This is bullshit, I thought. The Secret isn’t real; it’s false hope disguised as spirituality. I had bought into a deluded movement—a spiritual cash machine. I had become one of those people who pray for the winning lottery ticket, chant for parking spaces, meditate on fame. I decided to ditch The Secret and do things my own way. I had a plan.
If you remember, my last scary stalker internet obsession was with the wheelchair kid out of The Secret Garden. I struggled with my love for him for nearly fifteen years, longing for his messed-up legs to be wrapped around me in a passionate embrace. I yearned for him from afar. Then, as soon as I professed my love for him in ablog post, he sent me an email. (Yeah, it might have been angry and dismissive, but whatevs). Then, last week I wrote ablog post in which I quoted my idol, author Dennis Cooper. Not a week later and I was elated to discover that he referenced my entry on his blog, The Weaklings.
I started thinking about the strange links between these two events. Suddenly it hit me: The internet is basically like this weird, magical thing that connects the entire world or whatever (duh?). No one is unattainable. Writing about someone online is essentially as effective as whispering it in their ear. Let’s face it, everyone Googles themselves. Hamilton Morris, no matter how painfully cool he may be, is no exception. I wonder if he has Google alerts. I wonder if he’s reading this RIGHT NOW. Are you out there, Ham? Can you hear me? Do you love me like I love you?
So what I’m saying is, maybe the internet is the real secret (even though everyone already knows about it). Maybe instead of thinking positively, we need to think out loud, online, unedited, non-stop, all the time. Am I right? Is this blog the answer? I’ll let you know in a week.
Google Alert: Josh Rawson: You’re my Rushmore. Bradford Cox: I may or may not have jerked-off thinking about you yesterday. Stacie Howard: I actually did make out with your boyfriend in the girls locker room after soccer practice that time in tenth grade… bitch. Jamie Bell: Wanna go for coffee sometime?