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Why Worry?

Some things are just not meant to be worried about, and others, are unforeseen opportunities...

Some time ago, in a not so far off place, I stumbled across a small vender’s booth on the roadside while on vacation. The older woman, appearing wise with wavy dark hair streaked with various hues of grays and whites, and sun-baked skin with crow’s feet extending from the corners of her deep-set, black eyes, asked me how I was that first-day-of-my-vacation day. Maybe I struggled to respond, but before I could answer, she casually directed me to one particular display.

I then saw for the first time, these irregularly-shaped flat, polished gemstones that she offered in a variety of colors and patterns. They were called worry stones.

She selected one and placed it in the fingertips of my right hand and told me to place the fleshy pad of my thumb in its smooth, concave center. She said that when I worried, I should hold the gemstone as such, and rub its depressed center in a circular manner. There was no concern on the context or size of the worry. If I rubbed the stone as directed, my anxiety would eventually vanish.

I purchased it. How could I not?

As our group continued on our travels, I played with my new rock, rubbing it for feel and fun. But I soon found that I began to worry.

A lady friend was concerned about me. She worried, she said, about me because I worried so much about her. She also knew that I worried a lot about almost anything that affected me and others, regardless if I knew them or not. I now began worrying about my friend who worried about me worrying. If I told her about my worry stone, and what the elder sage told me to do when I worried, I feared I’d worry even more that my friend would worry more about me worrying about her worrying about me worrying about everything in life that I worried about, including me now worrying about her worrying about me, now that I’d purchased that damn worry stone.

I sighed, stopped rubbing my worry stone, placed it on my thigh, and thought for a moment. I then realized that if I inverted my worry stone, so the convex or bulged portion pointed upwards, and the concave portion was now underneath, my shiny new, polished gemstone would make a great hat for my penis.

Ping Note: I wrote the essence of this story a few years ago, but the story was lost in a transition of sorts. I recently rediscovered this worry stone and thought I’d recreate this story the best that I could recall.


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