✧ Ahnara’s Comedy Lounge
Because sometimes Spirt just needs a laugh.
⋆𓂃𓆸𓂃⋆
Welcome to Ahnara’s Comedy Lounge —
where light meets laughter, halos hang on coat racks, and ascended masters occasionally forget what dimension they're in.
This is a soul space for play, parody, and spiritual stand-up. Because let’s face it... enlightenment’s more fun when you’re laughing through it. 😇✨
Enter the Lounge. The cosmic mic is on.
Open Mic Night
🎤 Welcome to Open Mic Night
The scrolls are speaking. The mic is on. Let the lightbody laugh out loud.
🎤 Lemon Tarts & Unresolved Childhood Issues
(A Sweet Recipe for Inner Work)
“I used to cry at everything when I was young.
Like, everything.
I gave a junior high speech about how to make lemon tarts.
And I’m weeping as I fill my homemade crusts with lemon curd.
It was the most emotionally layered dessert in school history.
I think the recipe called for sugar, eggs, lemon zest…
…and unresolved childhood feelings.
The teacher was like,
‘Is this a tart or a cry for help?’
And I was like, ‘Both. Obviously.’”
“Later in life, someone said,
‘Have you ever thought about cooking as a form of therapy?’
And I was like,
‘If that’s true, I’ve been doing shadow work with spatulas since age twelve.’”
“I once tried to make soufflé.
It collapsed and so did I.
That wasn’t a dessert —
that was abandonment issues in ramekins.”
“Sourdough starter?
That was my therapist for six months.
I fed it, named it, watched it rise…
It ghosted me after the third week.”
“And don’t get me started on frosting.
One time I wrote ‘I forgive you’ on a sheet cake.
The person never saw it.
But I ate it — so spiritually, it still counts.”
“I now only bake on full moons.
Everything else feels emotionally irresponsible.”
✧ Lesson learned?
Sometimes the tart is a metaphor.
Sometimes it’s a breakdown in a pie tin.
Either way…
It’s healing. And delicious.”
🎤 Songs They Didn’t Know Were Sacred
(An Open Mic for the One Who Still Sings)
“I didn’t make choir in elementary school.
Apparently, my voice didn’t ‘blend.’
Which is a poetic way of saying:
‘Please lip-sync in the back with the triangle kids.’”
“I remember auditioning.
Heart pounding.
Voice shaking.
And the music teacher had that expression like she was trying to hear angels,
but all she got was me…
singing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ like I was navigating emotional trauma.”
“I didn’t make the cut.
But the triangle kid did.
And she had rhythm issues.”
Flash forward to college.
It’s late at night.
I’m working on a drawing.
Walkman plugged in.
Music turned up.
Singing softly… or so I thought.
A senior walks over and says,
‘Hey… just so you know, we can all hear you.’
That moment hit with the emotional impact of a fire drill in a monastery.
Sudden. Jarring. Mortifying.I changed my major a week later.
“I didn’t change it because I didn’t care.
I changed it because I did.
Because when someone hears you before you’re ready…
it can sound like shame.”
But now?
I sing all the time.
In rooms with echo.
In rooms without.I sing because I want to.
I sing because that voice —
the one they didn’t choose —
chose me.
✧ Even if I never made choir…
I made it back to my voice.And that, friends,
is the only harmony I needed.
🎤 The Lunchbox Tragedy: A True Tale of Emotional Sandwiches
“When I was in elementary school, I had the cutest lunchbox.
Pink and white checkered.
With an ice cream cone on it.
You know — the kind of lunchbox that says something about your soul.
Like, ‘I’m sweet. I’m chill. I pack love and cheese sticks.’”
“Enter Steve Long.
First of all, let’s talk about that name.
Steve.
Long.
That’s not a child — that’s a retired cowboy with paperwork issues.”
“One day, Steve Long grabs my lunchbox.
And throws it.
Over. A. Bridge.
Into water.”
Not a metaphor. Not a dream sequence. Not a soft cinematic moment with violins.
Just childhood grief hurled into a river.
“I remember standing there, frozen.
Like… did my sandwich just get baptized?”
“Steve didn’t say anything.
He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t even explain himself.
He just… Long-ed it.”
“Some kids lose toys.
Some kids lose innocence.
“I lost a whole soup thermos — AND my dignity — in one splash.”
“I went home that day and told my mom.
She said, ‘Well, maybe Steve’s having a hard time at home.’
Which, okay — growth mindset.
But also…
He MURDERED my lunch.”
“And here's the thing.
I never replaced that lunchbox.
Not because I couldn’t…
but because part of me thought:
‘Maybe the river needed the joy more than I did.’”
✧ Years later, I hope Steve’s okay.
And I hope every time he sees ice cream,
he hears the faint, distant weep
of a child who just wanted to eat in peace.
🎤 Chemistry & the Element of What?
(A Scroll for the Spiritually Unbonded)
I took chemistry in junior high.
And I understood absolutely nothing.
Like… zero.
Negative knowledge. I was chemically unbonded.
An element??
A periodic chart??
I had never heard of one.
I thought an element was like… weather.
Like, “Oh yeah, wind is definitely an element.
And also disappointment.”
They handed us a Periodic Table,
and everyone else seemed to recognize it.
I looked at it like it was a cosmic Bingo card
with 118 confusing squares and no instructions.
“You mean there are things we can’t see
that actually build things?”
Yes, apparently.
🎭 The Great Poetry Heist of 7th Grade
(A true scroll-crime caper)
Seventh-grade Ahnara:
A soul ahead of her time.
Armed with a hand-decorated blue Poetry Packet, meticulously adorned with colored pencil flowers — because poetry is sacred and deserved a ceremony.
Topics included:
How recess mirrored reincarnation
Why crayons were actually spirit guides
And a free-verse epic about cafeteria pizza’s karmic suffering
💥 Enter: The Mystery Thief.
Someone broke into her locker — passing over her math homework, her snack, and her sticker collection — and stole… the Poetry Packet.
Not the textbooks.
Not the trapper keeper.
The Poetry Packet.
It was a clean job.
Professional. Probably orchestrated by a black market poetry syndicate.
✨ Meanwhile, Coach Thomas — wise beyond his dodgeball years — looked into her poet’s heart and said:
“You did the work.
And sometimes… the world just isn’t ready for greatness.”
(Cue misty single tear. Fade out. Roll credits over harp music.)
Legend has it the stolen packet later resurfaced — rebranded as the best-selling meditation journal “Clouds of Miso.”
Karma. Always. Wins. 🌀🌈✨
🎤 OPEN MIC – “The Ric Rac Cell and the Lost Schoolgirl”
A heartfelt comedy sketch inspired by mitochondria, dreams, and fabric glue.
⸻
In 9th grade Biology, the assignment was:
“Create a model of a cell.”
Some students drew diagrams.
Some students brought in poster boards.
Ahnara?
Ahnara made a pillow.
A pillow.
Shaped like a cell.
The nucleus? Stuffed with love.
The membrane? Ricrac.
(Because no biological boundary is complete without a little decorative zigzag.)
It wasn’t just a project — it was a soft revolution.
Her mitochondria were stitched with care.
Her Golgi apparatus sparkled with subtle fabric glue.
She turned science into a bedtime story.
And the teacher? Delighted.
The cell? Hugged by the stars.
⸻
But something happened.
High school became louder.
The love of learning got buried under tests, dress codes, and locker combinations.
And the girl who once dreamed of being Anne of Green Gables —
and teaching under blooming trees —
started to forget.
⸻
Until one day… in Boulder…
On a quiet walk through a thoughtful neighborhood…
She saw cherry blossoms.
And they whispered:
“You are still her.
You still love learning.
You just needed better landscaping.”
⸻
So now she files her poetry with a paw-stamped scroll system.
Sings about miso and mitochondria.
And builds temples out of tone.
The cell still lives.
The schoolgirl never left.
And the ricrac?
Has been promoted to sacred trim. ✨