My Confessions On Being Deliciously Weird and Wonderfully Cuckoo

I’ve always been a little offbeat, a smidgen left of center. Some might say I’m a few chips short of a cookie, but in a world full of conformity, being a little weird and cuckoo is not a bug—it's a feature. 

For me, this oddball streak is both a quirk and a philosophy, a way of life that I’ve embraced so wholeheartedly that I’ve self-anointed myself the “Chocolate Taoist.

Yeah, you heard that right: The. Chocolate. Taoist. It’s my paradoxical identity, my self-bestowed badge of honor in this mad journey of becoming the best version of myself.

There’s a method to this madness. As a self-proclaimed Chocolate Taoist, I’ve come to realize that the best way to navigate the often chaotic, mundane, and ridiculously predictable patterns of life is to stir in a little cocoa—metaphorically speaking. 

I don’t fit neatly into a box, and I don’t want to. Boxes are for cookies, not people. My personal mission is to impart what I call "Taoist Nomadic Wisdom"—a kind of free-flowing, no-rules-required philosophy that prioritizes inner connection over outer perfection, and a healthy dose of laughter and irreverence over taking oneself too seriously.

Take Zhuangzi, the ancient Chinese philosopher, for example. If there’s anyone who got the memo on the benefits of being a little cuckoo, it was him. He was the quintessential oddball thinker, known for his peculiar, contrarian ideas that were as slippery and freeform as a jazz solo. 

While Confucius was busy setting rules and erecting social hierarchies, Zhuangzi was lying back, dreaming he was a butterfly, questioning if he was a man dreaming of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of being a man. To him, everything was a cosmic prank, a sort of divine comedy where the trick was not to fall into the trap of believing your own self-importance.

I’ve drawn a lot from Zhuangzi’s playful irreverence. For starters, it taught me that embracing my own weirdness isn’t just a rebellious act but a practical one. 

I mean, think about it: The world is overflowing with advice on how to “be the best you” with its self-help books, detox diets, and endless motivational seminars, each of them claiming to have the magic bullet that will turn you into some paragon of productivity and fulfillment. 

Yet, what they often fail to mention is that the path to becoming the best version of yourself isn’t a straight line, nor is it filled with applause and Instagrammable moments. It’s more like a Dadaist painting—odd, sometimes indecipherable, and occasionally a little grotesque.

For me, being the Chocolate Taoist means giving myself permission to be deliciously complex, savory, and—let’s be honest—a bit nutty. It’s about mixing the sweetness of Taoist philosophy’s emphasis on flow and harmony with the bitter realization that sometimes life just doesn’t make any damn sense, no matter how hard you try to fit it into a neat little narrative. 

And that’s okay! Zhuangzi wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d probably say something like, “Who needs logic when you’ve got laughter?” and I’d be inclined to agree.

Being the best version of myself hasn’t been a quest to polish my rough edges. Instead, it’s been a wild, often perplexing journey of leaning into those very edges, of finding the courage to zig when the world demands I zag. 

There’s a quiet liberation in knowing that you’re not for everyone, that you’re the weird fruit on the family tree. It means you’re free to experiment, to play, and to fail without it becoming some existential crisis.

I remember one day, a friend asked me why I chose “Chocolate Taoist” as my moniker. “Why not just be the Taoist or the Philosopher or some other more, I don’t know, ‘serious’ title?” they questioned. My response? “Because the Chocolate Taoist sounds way more delicious.” 

That’s the thing—seriousness is overrated. I’d rather be a mystery wrapped in an enigma and sprinkled with cacao nibs. I’d rather challenge people to think differently, to embrace the peculiarities within themselves rather than sand them down to fit some societal mold.

The beauty of Zhuangzi’s teachings, and the secret sauce of being a Chocolate Taoist, is recognizing that life’s absurdities are not something to be feared or sanitized. They’re to be savored. In the end, the quest to bring the best version of myself to the table has meant showing up with all my weirdness intact—proudly so. 

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Zhuangzi, it’s that the greatest freedom lies in embracing the chaotic, the unconventional, and yes, the beautifully cuckoo essence of who you truly are.

And so, here I am, wandering through life as the Chocolate Taoist, stirring a little sweetness, a dash of bitterness, and a whole lot of unpredictability into the mix. I may not know exactly where this journey is leading, but one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be one deliciously weird ride.

---

Your member supporter contribution of $6.00/month or $60.00/year will help me continue to capture for you what it means to be human in your quest to live a more interconnected, expansive, and playfully free life. 

So thank you for your consideration. And remember, every little bit counts.