Hippy Racket Mafia Uses My The Celestial Conch Of My Skull For A Tenis Ball And Weirdest Thing I Fee

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Hippy Racket Mafia Uses The Celestial Conch Of My Skull For A Tennis Ball And Weirdest Thing I Feel Great

Somewhere between the afterglow of Woodstock and the forgotten half of the Milky Way, my skull got drafted into a game I didn’t sign up for. The Hippy Racket Mafia said it was all cosmic recycling — “You won’t need it where you’re going, man.” They strung a tennis racket through the open dome of my head and told me to relax. I did.

They served enlightenment at 90 miles an hour. Every hit made a small ping that echoed across galaxies and came back as laughter. The ball wasn’t rubber; it was me — or what was left of the part that still cared. They called me “The Celestial Conch,” and honestly, that sounded kind of nice.

Somewhere between the volleys, I noticed how the air rippled like sound through sunlight. Every backhand was a peace sign in motion. Every lob was a prayer for gravity to take a break. And every time my skull met the racket, I saw the same blue reflection in the sunglasses they put on me — a world spinning gently, like a record that didn’t know the song was over.

When the match ended, nobody kept score. They just floated off in the vapor of their own halos, leaving me on the court, half bone, half racket, totally radiant. The weirdest thing was: I felt fine. Maybe better than fine.

Maybe that’s the secret — when the world decides to use your skull as sports equipment, the best thing to do is just smile, throw up two peace signs, and let them serve.

Because somewhere in that wild volley of existence, you realize the racket and the skull are the same thing — both hollow, both strung tight, both echoing the sound of something eternal bouncing around inside.