Ms. Dominique says:

“I'm choosing happiness over suffering, I know I am. Just ask my new boyfriend, who’s an NFL linebacker. He plays for the Green Bay Packers. I'm making space for the unknown future to fill up my life with yet-to-come surprises…. That’s why he calls me his ‘Wide Receiver.’

"You do know why the Green Bay players are called ‘The Packers’? … yes, that and the free chocolate clown pies...”

Ms. Dominique says:

"My love affair with him had a wonderful element of surprise and romance to it, which I will always and forever cherish to my dying day. But it was not a physical infatuation, and here’s how I can tell: because I did not demand that he wear a stovepipe hat and become my Great Emancipator or sit on my chest and become my Source of All Life. I would do the same for him (and have). 

"Nor did I suddenly vanish into that man’s chest cavity like a twisted, parasitic homoculus. That was Love’s job. During our long period of courtship on the internet, I remained vitually intacto within my own person, and I allowed myself to meet him there in that electronic frontier for who and what he was ... a complete and total perv."

More spiritual advice....

Ms. Dominique tweets:

 
"And it's been surprising to see what my life is like now. It's simple. I’m walking out to get the mail and it's a sunny day and I see my neighbor's cat, and I just realize that I'm alive— that's enough. That feeling seldom happens behind the wheel of a car. Unless you see that cat walking across the street ahead of you. Then you’re ready to discover what life really feels like, as it bounces under the body of your car. Try to stop me then. Just try."

Spiritual Advice in the manner of Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love”

Ms. Dominique says:

"I have some new policies toward life, like I will not hit the gas when I see a yellow light. I only do that now for pregnant women. They don’t move so fast. Them, and old men in those slow electric wheelchairs. After all, that’s 25 points. 

"But I am trying to change. And now I'll say “no” to things that I used to instinctively say “yes” to. No, really I do. Like when I get an invitation to a boring society party. I already know most of these people, and they are booooring! No, really, I’m joking. I know that they are wonderful people, but I also know it will make me even more stressed the next day. It's like protecting this wonderful little lit match that I struck in India. And I feel my goal in life now is to cup my hand around it and make sure that the blowing winds of, you know, stuff – like capitalism and industrialism and competition – that this stuff doesn't blow it out."

Ms. Dominique says:

Ms. Dominique says:


I also started to keep a diary. I have found that I only keep a journal when I'm miserable. Or when I’m horny. And now I have a new boyfriend so I'm in a really happy place in my life right now. 

  And so yesterday I thought to myself, “Well, what if you keep a journal where every day you write down the best moment of the day, and then you remember those bits of moments and you chart them just as much as you used to chart your miserable moments?” You know what! Why then at the end of your life you can assemble thousands of pages of to show your friends and prove that you were once incredibly bat-shit happy and make them all jealous. Nice!

Ms. Dominique says:

Jean Paul Sartre used to say, “Exits are everywhere.” This was especially important to know when, like Sartre, you live in Vichy France in 1942 and the SS is searching houses and looking for you. 

But I’m different from that Philistine philosophique Sarte, and maybe even a better philosopher. And so I like to think that Entrances are everywhere, too. Entrances to that Spiritual Perfection can be found in prison, just like they can be found in a harried crack addict who's on her last nerve--and suddenly she realizes: 

There's just this mote (or bon motte) of a crack in the doorway, and the crack of dawn, and there’s a crack that carries you into that divine perfection, where you remember for a minute that you're more than this false desire for drugs and other illusions of the flesh. So take that, Sartre! You sorry Frog f*cker.