It started as a harmless TikTok trend. Something about aligning your emotional energy by shifting furniture according to an AI-generated Feng Shui protocol called "ChiHarmony™ 6.9." I was skeptical. But I hadn’t blinked in three days and my lamp was giving me side-eye, so I gave it a shot.

Step 1: Move your couch exactly 3.14 feet northeast to disrupt generational trauma. Step 2: Face your bed toward a childhood regret. Step 3: Unplug your modem for spiritual clarity.

That’s when things got weird.

I felt lighter. Not spiritually. Physically. My anxiety, normally parked in my clavicle like a sleeping raccoon, suddenly floated outward.

Somewhere next door, someone yelled: “WHY IS THE INTERNET OUT?!”

That’s when I realized: I hadn’t healed. I’d just redirected. My anxiety had jumped networks.

The Rise of Emotional Offloading™

ChiHarmony’s developers (a wellness startup partially funded by a sugar-free mushroom coffee pyramid scheme) insist it’s working as intended. Their FAQ states:

“Vibrational realignment may cause temporary instability in neighborly relations.”

In fact, their latest patch note includes an “AnxioCast™” feature that offloads unresolved emotion onto the strongest nearby Wi-Fi.

According to ChiHarmony:

“Pain is just a bandwidth problem.”

A Brief Period of Enlightened Cruelty

For 72 hours I was perfect. Calm. Serene. I stared at my inbox without flinching. I drank lukewarm water on purpose. I even answered a spam call and told them about my day.

Meanwhile, my neighbor—Marcus—began posting increasingly erratic haikus on the community bulletin board:

Router blinking red / All my apps speak in riddles / Sleep tastes like static.

He stopped wearing shoes.

Passive-Aggressive Zen

To avoid detection, I recalibrated my anxiety field daily. The AI instructed me to burn cloves, face true west, and scream inwardly while journaling exclusively in emojis. I began living in a state of transcendent avoidance.

Marcus installed a Faraday cage.

The Collapse of Calm

The illusion cracked when ChiHarmony pushed a firmware update. Instead of radiating peace, my IKEA shelves started sobbing. My blender confessed its regrets. My iPad refused to charge unless I made eye contact.

Marcus? Gone. Left only a post-it note: “The chakra storm is inside the walls now.”

Conclusion: Inner Peace Is a Group Project

I’ve since abandoned furniture altogether. I sleep in a hammock made of unread notifications. My plants do the talking now. They say Marcus found refuge in a tech-free commune with zero signal and infinite guilt.

As for me, I’ve learned that emotional energy cannot be destroyed, only redirected—preferably into someone else’s data plan.

Namaste and no bars.