Ahhh, New Orleans—the city of jazz, ghosts, and enough fried food to make your arteries weep for mercy. It had been on my bucket list forever, and I finally made it! A city that wraps its sticky, humid arms around history and haunts, where Bourbon Street smells like the desperate aftermath of one-too-many-bad-decisions, and honestly? I was here for it.
I went full-on tourist mode and I am not sorry about it. We’re talking graveyard strolls, overpriced bus tours, and gorging on beignets like I’d never seen powdered sugar before. I partied hard on Bourbon Street, made some spectacularly poor decisions (read: paid way too much for drinks I’m too embarrassed to describe), and ate what I’m 99% sure was the best fried chicken of my life at Emeril’s. I even managed to squeeze in some live jazz on Frenchman’s Street before collapsing in a heap of exhaustion and greasy euphoria.
But here’s the thing: while my trip was memorable, it wasn’t all sunshine and beignets. I was dealing with a full-on colitis flare-up. Yup, chronic illness was my uninvited plus-one, and it was throwing a full-blown temper tantrum in my digestive system. But did I let that stop me? Absolutely not. Did I pack half a pharmacy to survive? You bet your ass.
Mystical (And Slightly Judgey) Encounters
While doped up on Codeine (ahh, travel necessities), we stumbled upon a voodoo priestess in the French Quarter because why the hell not? She offered a variety of readings—crystal ball, tarot, you name it—and, naturally, I signed up for a palm reading because I wanted to hear how fabulous and complicated my future was going to be, as one does.
But instead of vague predictions about love and money, she took one look at my hand and went straight for my jugular: “It’s not your fault. All the pain you feel. It’s not your fault.” OK, that stung. I mean, here I am, living with a body that basically hates me on a cellular level, and all I can think is, “GREAT, I must’ve been a terrible person in a past life. Maybe I was the one who invented taxes?”
Then she hit me with this doozy: “You’ll live to 97.” Okay, cool, I’m into it! Until she followed up with, “97 years is a long time to have bad karma.” EXCUSE ME, MA’AM?! That’s when it hit me: I was either an axe-wielding maniac in my past life or just someone who couldn’t parallel park without ruining everyone’s day. But, hey, the good news? She said my partner was so lucky to have me, because who else would put up with him? Which, honestly, was the validation I didn’t know I needed.
My Feelings Were Haunted, Thanks for Asking
But real talk: that reading left me feeling bummed. All I could think about was how many more medical treatments would fail me, how many more flare-ups I’d have to survive, and if my future was just one long diet of bananas and applesauce. Not the bougie fortune I was hoping for. It felt like the universe had ghosted me—left me on read with no closure.
But then I did what any responsible adult would do: I drowned my sorrows in more overpriced drinks, some questionable public dancing, and enough powdered sugar to kill a small horse. And that’s when it hit me. Not the drinks, not the dancing, but the realization that the voodoo priestess was just plain wrong. And if she knew how wrong she was, she’d probably give me my $20 back. (A refund on bad karma? Yes, please.)
Good Decisions and No Regrets (Well, Maybe a Few)
You know what? My life is freaking awesome. I have an incredible family, a solid support system, and access to the best medical care. I have a job that pays for great insurance so I can keep making bad decisions and fix them later with naps and a sugar coma. Plus, I was in New Orleans. If that’s what bad karma looks like, sign me up for the full 97 years, baby.
Sure, I could throw myself a pity party, blame all my problems on some ancient cosmic screw-up, and resign myself to a lifetime of suffering. But instead, I choose to see the good. The bad things that happen aren’t my fault. (Thank you, voodoo priestess!) And even though my palm seems to think I’m doomed, I’m out here living my best life, thankyouverymuch.
Final Thoughts
So, should you get your fortune told in the middle of a health crisis while wandering through a city known for dark magic and debauchery? Absolutely. Just remember: it’s not what they read in your palm that matters—it’s how you handle it. And honestly? If your karma leads you to overpriced cocktails and the best fried chicken of your life, you’re doing just fine.
**This post is an updated version of a previous post**
