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avatar psychic days, psychic nights

I wasn’t so much lonely, as I was choosing men who were really wrong for my life.

So not to embarrass anyone, I will stand up in front of the entire room and admit – bare my soul — with sheer conviction that yes I did call those 800 numbers, and the 900 numbers, the Psychic Connection, that’s right, the Dionne Warwick psychic connection hotline — and yes, I did dial a psychic for three bucks a minute and yes, I had a phone bill that was so astronomical – so monumentally huge – that my father almost had a coronary stroke. And I wasn’t even living at home, but when the bill came, I rushed to my dad’s office and declared: “Oh my God, if I don’t pay this they’ll shut it off.” “What in God’s name were you doing?” he asked me while turning deathly white. “Looking for love, pop, looking for love.” “What’s wrong with the Bowling Alley, some nice fellas.” “Yeah, I know…not the same.”

We made a deal with AT &T.

It creeps up on you, suddenly. You’re watching TV and then the “Hi, how are ya?” commercial comes on, and she tells you, all in a close up, that she knows all about your future, she has all the answers and she knows you’ve been heartbroken and sad and lonely and she can help you, she can mend you heart, reignite the flame, guide you, help you find financial security. These commercials usually start up at around 11 o’clock, the vulnerable hour. You’ve already, I’m guessing, watched your favorite TV show slash series, the one with the sad yet sexy cop and you’re drifting, floating in and out of the nightly news with it’s ghastly images, when you click through other stations and there she is: looking directly into the camera.

Hi. My name is Juanita. I can see your sadness and fear, that loss of job, that man who left you high and dry, the house in foreclosure, the troubled children and the hemorrhaging bank account. I can read your future and trust me, as bleak and awful as it is now, your future is filled with great happiness and huge benefit, and really it’s just around the corner. You should call me now at 1-800-FOOL, that’s 1-800-FOOL, and for those who only have rotary phones, 1-800-3665.

It’s tempting. This shit is tempting. Your boyfriend, or girlfriend breaks up with you, worse yet, does not return any of your phone calls, which by the way, in my book, is worthy of being tried and convicted without trial. A not returned phone call is a crime. Period. Anyone who tells you they don’t give a shit if someone calls them back is as full of shit as the person who is not calling. It’s rude, it’s unnecessary, and it’s just plain disrespectful. I’m starting a petition: No return phone calls, no daylight.

I call this Juanita person. I ask her the top tier questions: Is the guy I’m dating true blue, does he have an ulterior motive, is he working where he said he was working, and is this relationship worthy? And what does it look like for me in the job market? She says she needs to go deep in, have a moment or two of meditation – I could’ve sworn she said medication – and so I channel surf, while I’m cradling the phone.

On another channel, another psychic, with a crystal ball in the background, is offering – along with a reading – an herbal concoction that will help stimulate the sex juices. “We all can use a little extra UMMMmmph.”

While she was selling “ummmph,” my psychic was meditating, or maybe medicating, but she seemed to be gone for a while.

Juanita didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Not a clue, and there was a point in the conversation, mid way, when all of a sudden it was I who was giving her advice, and job tips, and helping her make some life choices and decisions. She tells me she misses her boyfriend so badly it hurts. I ask if he’s on vacation, or maybe, he’s away on work, out of town on business. No, she tells me, her boyfriend is serving time in prison.

Huh, I say, white collar?
Uh uh, no, she says, uh-uh, he’s serving life.
Life? I say.
Uh huh, she says, he murdered a couple of people he didn’t like.
Huh. Prior to this uh, killing murder thing, was he seeing a therapist?
I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. You think he really loves me? I love him so much. You think I should wait for him?
Well, truthfully, I tell her, I have a hard time waiting on line at Fairway, so I’m thinking I’m not the right person to ask.

Oh. Kay.

So, tell me, how does it go from my calling a psychic to find out if the guy I’m seeing is a psychopath, to the psychic telling me that her boyfriend, the love of her life, is in prison for murder.

As a friend of mine always says: crazy shit breeds crazy shit.

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