I founded Jesus for the first time. Not spiritually. Literally.

They say meditation is the modern way of telling your thoughts:

"Shut up and stop being annoying!"

But honestly, who can do that when your brain is like a PTA WhatsApp group: noisy, chaotic, and always throwing opinions no one asked for? I can’t. Not even for a second.

First, because meditation and I are fundamentally incompatible. Meditation asks for silence, and the moment I close my eyes, I’m already debating with myself whether buttered toast falls face down because it has a secret contract with gravity—or maybe it’s just like influencers, always causing unnecessary drama.

For me, meditation is like trying to assemble an IKEA piece without instructions: confusing, frustrating, and I always end up on the floor questioning if it was even worth the effort. And yet, society insists:

"Meditate. Find your inner peace."

As if it were that easy. My brain doesn’t understand inner peace. My brain understands endless lists of unfinished jokes I don’t even understand anymore (seriously, I need to improve my handwriting). My brain only understands about creating imaginary lottery-winning scenarios where I’m faced with life-altering dilemmas like whether to invest in real estate or finally build that luxury dog spa resort. It imagines me with $100 million, still worrying if the airport coffee is overpriced or if I’m supposed to tip the ATM.

At this point, I’ve learned to accept that my mind is like a hyperactive hamster that just downed five cans of Red Bull. And to compensate, I do the exact opposite of what I’d like: I go running. Running as if I’m auditioning for a Forrest Gump remake. Well, more like a spin-off, because in my version there’s no inspiration—just a constant battle to stay alive while reflecting on whether I should’ve just stayed on the couch binge-watching Netflix.

Believe me, I’ve tried everything: yoga classes, goat yoga, even goat yoga with the goats doing handstands while looking at you like they know you paid for this and they didn’t. Because here in Los Angeles, making a fool of yourself on a yoga mat is practically a lifestyle. Especially if you’re doing it in $300 leggings that are so "sustainable" they’ll probably outlive humanity—though your dignity won’t.

And it’s not just yoga. Here, you can find yoga with dogs, yoga with beer, yoga with healing crystals…

Basically, if something can be put in a sentence alongside the word "yoga," someone in LA is already charging $80 a class for it. But the worst part isn’t the price—it’s that they sell it to you as a unique spiritual experience:

"Connect with your body and soul while a goat stomps on your back."

If I wanted an animal to stomp on me, I’d have stayed at my uncle’s farm in Zarza La Mayor instead of paying for this nonsense.

And so, dear reader, we’ve arrived at today. You may think I’ve strayed far from the original point—probably reading this as confused as a vegan at a Brazilian steakhouse—but I promise, I’ve only taken you backstage into the fascinating circus that is my brain. You are Welcome.

Today, January 27th, I decided to finally honor my New Year’s resolution. Technically, you can still say “Happy New Year!” until February 15th without being socially awkward. So, I activated my summer body plan. Not because I love the exercicing, but because running is my personal version of meditation. Nothing screams inner peace like being out of breath, sweating as if you’re being chased by a bear, and questioning why on Earth you thought running 10 kilometers was a good idea.

Yes, running. But let me make this clear: I hate running almost as much as I hate when the waiter comes to check on you just as you’ve stuffed your face with food. Running is one of those activities I can’t enjoy—not with music, not with podcasts, not even with the promise of pizza at the finish line. For me, running is like attending a family reunion: you do it because you should, but every second you wonder why you didn’t fake being busy.

While running, I inevitably hate everything around me: the weather, the path, gravity, my own legs—which, by the way, complain even more than I do. Running is a constant internal battle: my body wants to stop, and my brain, channeling its best motivational speaker, says:

"If Forrest Gump could cross the entire country, you can at least make it to that lamppost… I think."

But today, what started as a simple escape to avoid an existential crisis led to something much deeper. Something unexpected. While jogging along the beach, my mind wandering between survival and reminding myself that breathing is important, I was listening to a glorious episode of the podcast Disgreland (shoutout to my friend Chris for recommending it). And then, it happened:

I've founded Jesus.

Ironically, the episode I was listening to was about Jesus Christ, but not the one from the Gospels—no, this was punk rock’s Jesus Christ Allin, a.k.a. GG Allin.

As I shuffled along the asphalt of LA’s beaches, listening to tales of punk chaos, I couldn’t help but feel a connection. Punk rock and I have so much in common: we’re loud, disorganized, and a bit hard to understand for most people. And then—bam!—I founded Jesus for the first time. Not spiritually. Literally.

I've found Jesus Christ!!

A figurine of Jesus, smiling as if He knew something I didn’t.

What was it doing there? How did it get there?

No clue, but it was one of the most ironic moments of my life.

Wait, Jesus I've heard anut Jesus being a crosfitter, but a runner?

But if you want to know how this little "celestial encounter" ties into my attempts to meditate, be a better person, or figure out the meaning of life, let me tell you, it’s a complicated process. Especially when "being less annoying" is on the list—something my dear J, my moral compass and fiercest critic, never fails to remind me of with the precision of an alarm clock that never gets snoozed. Her consistency rivals a Swiss watch, as if she was programmed by the same engineers who designed YouTube ads, she reminds me of it constantly, and she is unavoidable. J is a master of telling the truth without anesthesia, her affectionate way of saying:

“I love you, but please tone it down, or I’ll have to kill you”

Something she’s already tried—repeatedly, seriously.

Method 1: J insists on taking me to yoga classes, hoping that amidst the absolute silence and the torture of trying to touch my toes (spoiler: I can’t), I’ll finally shut th fuck up. And if that doesn’t work, she trusts that some impossible pose, like the "inverted warrior while breathing on another astral plane," will leave me so exhausted that I won’t have the energy to speak afterward. In truth, her dream is for me to get stuck in shavasana and decide never to get up again.

If you ever hear a muffled scream in a yoga class, it’s probably me trying not to dislocate something I didn’t even know was part of the human body, while she enjoys her moment of peace.

Method 2: Every morning, while J gets ready to conquer the world, I make her a cup of coffee,but on weekends, she "kindly" brings it to me in bed...

Boiling!!!

And when I say boiling, I mean the coffee could be used to weld metal. Compared to this, Mount Vesuvius mid-eruption feels like a thermal spa. She says it’s accidental, but after the third third-degree burn, I’m starting to have doubts. She always says, “Oops, I overdid it!” while I’m deciding whether to drink it or use it to forge a ring from The Lord of the Rings.

Method 3: J hides in the dark to scare me like she’s training for a Paranormal Activity 12 audition. Her technique is so precise I don’t know whether to laugh or call a cardiologist. Her hope, of course, is that the fright will shut me up—or that I’ll go into cardiac arrest, and the silence will be eternal.

But I promise you, this story doesn’t end how you’d expect. And if you think my meditation skills are bad, wait until you hear how my attempts at “finding myself” crumbled while Jesus stared at me from the sand.

And so, during my 10 kilometers of reflection... I came across Jesus again. This time, he was lying in the sand, with that unshakable smile of someone who knows they’re here for a greater purpose.

For reasons I’d rather not question, someone had left a figurine of Jesus in the middle of the beach. The kind that looks like it was taken from an improvised altar in a taxi’s glove compartment. And there I was, sweaty, exhausted, staring at Him like I’d just found a $50 bill in the laundry.

Finding Jesus on the beach is like finding a perfectly ripe avocado at the supermarket: rare, but when it happens, it changes your day. But finding Jesus twice? That’s gotta change your life.

And for a brief moment, it felt like a sign—like when you stumble upon free Wi-Fi in the middle of nowhere. Totally unexpected, but you know you have to make the most of it.

Maybe this was His way of telling me that being annoying isn’t a flaw—it’s my superpower.