I almost didn’t come to Bali.
In my opinion, Bali is for amateurs. Everyone who has a yoga mat and a passport and a mid life crisis has been to Bali.
Plus, if I hear one more person utter the words Eat, Pray, or Love in reference to my life I’m going to start screaming and never stop.
I’m so much more original than all that.
So much more adventurous.
Way cooler, thank you very much.
Luckily, I realized that these are really stupid reasons to not visit what I have quickly come to recognize as paradise (please see my Huffington Post article on the ill effects of pride and general egomaniacal fatheadedness), and am so in love with this place I spent all day yesterday looking for houses to rent.
Bali is all about the things I love like beaches and monkey jungles and temples and nice people and outdoor showers and sweet smelling flowers and never getting cold and not in the way L.A. pretends to never get cold but REALLY never getting cold and coral reefs and great food and I’m so inspired to write my book here I could weep.
Plus, Eat, Pray, Love wasn’t soooo bad.
AND, speaking of my book, and my impending Balinese residency that has me wanting to do nothing but explore every last monkey crack and crevice of this place – The Universe has generously stepped in and provided me with the perfect ankle injury to make sure I actually sit my ass down to write the damn thing instead.
An injury that reportedly won’t fully heal for several months, which is how long it takes to write a book.
An injury that even revered Balinese healers can’t heal (because he got the memo from The Universe perhaps? Or from my agent?)
An injury that has also provided the perfect material for the intro of my book, which is all about how we have already been given exactly what we need to live the lives we love, if only we’d change how we look at things.
It’s also why every shot on this page is of the many hotels I’ve stayed at. Me and Club Foot Jones don’t get out much, but I really don’t care because I live here now and can see it later.