Authenticity is not a beautifully lit room with gossamer curtains flowing in the breeze. It’s the bird shit that flies into the room when the windows are opened and lands on the curtains, getting rubbed all over the walls by that gentle breeze. It’s the discovery of the bird shit weeks later, the shock and misplaced sense of betrayal, and the eventual task of cleaning up this bizarre attack. It’s the painful tingling of your foot (that you don’t mention) after you’ve tripped on something and laughed it off, not the quirkiness of the trip. It’s the chunks of half-digested salsa in your vomit after you partied too hard the night before, not the tanned, smiling selfies taken and posted before the party started. Be visceral, you cotton candy hack.