Fuck Me, I'm Famous at Versailles

 THE ARCHAEOLOGIST OF MY SOULS: 1 in 8.3 BillionCHAPTER 17: FUCK ME, I'M FAMOUS (AT VERSAILLES)There are moments in life when you know—you just know—that something profound has shifted inside you. Not because everything outside looks perfect, not because the bills are paid or the relationship is fixed or the career finally makes sense. But because the way you carry yourself changes. Because you start walking through the world like the air belongs to you and you can taste every goddamn breath. Because you don't need the world to behave anymore in order to feel at peace.This is what I was living inside of. Eleven straight weeks of happiness.And I'm not talking about peppy-happy or productivity-happy or crossed-off-a-list-item happy. I'm not talking about that manic shit where you're convinced everything is amazing and then you crash three days later and eat an entire cheesecake in your underwear while watching true crime documentaries. I mean the kind of deep, embodied joy that feels like your soul has finally unclenched after decades of white-knuckling its way through existence. A joy that doesn't rely on circumstance or approval. A joy that isn't reclusive or fleeting. A joy that feels as electric as twenty spiritual espressos all hitting your bloodstream at once while angels do backup vocals and the universe winks at you like you're finally in on the joke it's been telling for millennia.I recognized this feeling because I had felt it power through me seven years earlier in Puerto Vallarta after the breakup with Tommy—that same cellular shift where everything inside you reorganizes itself around a new frequency. But this time, in the jungles of Laos, I wasn't just visiting that frequency like some spiritual Airbnb where you leave a nice review and never come back. I was moving the fuck in. Unpacking my bags. Hanging pictures on the walls. Telling the neighbors I was here to stay and yes I would be playing music at unreasonable hours, deal with it.So I leaned into it.And the day I walked into Versailles, the world caught up to that frequency and decided to throw me a parade. Complete with confetti. And French people. Which, if you know French people, is basically the same thing as a standing ovation from the gods themselves.I'm not saying I outshined the gold and chandeliers at Versailles. I'm just saying Louis XIV called himself the Sun King, but on this day, honey, the light was clearly coming from me. Sorry Louis. You had a good run. But the glow-up has a new address and it's giving Southeast Asian jungle realness with European flair.---THE MAGIC BEFORE THE PALACEThe magic started before the palace. Before France. Before I ever set foot on European soil and had to pretend I understood the metric system.It began quietly in Cambodia where the air was thick and the temples were ancient and the timing divine. Where magic kept showing up without me having to perform for it or hustle for it or prove I deserved it. The villa was near the jungle—because apparently when you finally surrender, the universe gives you monkeys as neighbors. Not a metaphor. Actual monkeys. Screaming at dawn like tiny furry alarm clocks with anger issues. I'd hear them every morning doing whatever monkeys do when they think no one's listening. Probably judging the new gay who moved in next door. "Look at this bitch with his mocktails and his journaling. Who does he think he is?"I'd sit on my terrace at sunset watching the jungle do its thing—birds I couldn't name, sounds I couldn't identify, probably several things that could kill me if I wandered off the path—and I'd think: That's the energy. That's the pace. That's what I've been missing. For fifty years I've been running around like a Chihuahua on espresso trying to prove I deserve to exist, and this jungle is just... existing. Taking up space. Not apologizing. Not hustling. Not posting inspirational quotes on Instagram about its journey. "Day 47 of being a j