By the end of the day, I’ve swallowed nine droppers full of liquid Ormus, brushed twice with Ormus toothpaste, slathered my body in Ormus oil, eaten half my weight in Ormus-infused chocolate and guzzled three glasses of fermented superfoods laden with the stuff. I’m spent, having officially overdosed on light body food.
I wake up Sunday morning feeling shredded. My Ormus hangover is compounded by raw chocolate adrenal overwhelm. Tim blames himself, knowing all too well my tendency to overindulge in sketchy ingestibles, and cuts me off. “No more Ormus for you!” he scolds.
I drag myself to the festival in need of some serious rehab. I pass a metabolic nutritionist I know from the Westside.
“Can’t talk,” I mutter. “Need yoga.”
I grunt my way through an hourlong flow class, led by Swami X, rebel yogi from Manhattan. From there, I stumble into a pyramid, where a Buddhist nun hangs a crystal pendant from my neck while explaining that the energies from the sacred geometry etched onto the back, as well as from the copper wires and magnets encased inside, will work miracles on my monoatomically ravaged system. I wander into a brain-hemisphere-balancing workshop in which I slap my thighs black and blue, and stomp my feet while chanting something about how living foods are loving, or loving foods are living, or something.
By the time the big, blooming moon makes its way overhead, I’m back in action: dancing away the end of the day with giddy superfood, superfestival, supersonic Everything is Perfect, high-vibing glee. Naada and I commandeer Tim’s Prius and head to a house party behind one of those magnificent red Sedona rocks. With hemispheres balanced and a year’s worth of Ormus superconducting my intentions, I beeline for a back bedroom and plop onto the bed across from a smooth-skinned didgeridoo-playing shamanic astrologer with shiny brown hair and shinier, shamanic eyes. “Who are you?” he says, green eyes gleaming, dimples beaming.