Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Psychic shmychic.


When Kelly suggested I see her psychic counselor on the West side of LA to help me through some issues I'm experiencing, I laughed. I asked her if this counselor used any cold-reading techniques, which is something employed by 99.99% (probably) of supposed “psychics.” Typically, they start by saying something vague, citing an object or a name, while the customer eagerly deciphers the psychic's cryptic message.  It's kind of like a Rorschach test, only taken way too literally.  



I see a fucking bat.”


Oh, shit? Well, I'm fucking batman. That's why you see a bat. Also, my best friend just died, and he was really into bats.


Oh, well, because I see your best friend, too.”



Still, Kelly insisted that her counselor was legit, that his readings were eerily accurate and I should give him a shot.  Since I'm somewhat in crisis, I figured what the hell.  Isn't that how these things work, anyway?  The only people who see a psychic are those currently dealing with a tumultuous relationship, the death of a loved one or some miscellaneous personal disaster.  


I knew things weren't going well in the first five minutes. During that time, he stated that I wanted to be more than a hairdresser (right), but that I was not aware of this fact (wrong). He said that my mother would say things she didn't mean, and asked if she was an addict. In reality, my mother has late stage Alzheimer's Disease, and she can't speak at all.


Fifteen minutes later, things changed. Without volunteering any information about myself, he seemed to know some very accurate and personal details about me.  He even seemed to know the personalities with which I'm currently dealing, right on down to a very eerie, creepy moment where he mimicked the exact mannerisms an acquaintance of mine has when he thinks he's said something clever. How he knew that, I have no idea, but it sent chills through my body. Maybe in some respects he is a legitimate psychic. But all my sensibilities tell me that he analyzed me thoroughly enough in my own mannerisms, dress and speech to assume I probably hang out with assholes. Who knows. He also knew I was creative, but so is everyone else in Los Angeles.

Back when I was 19, I believed in all sorts of bullshit!
Hell yeah, that's a ouija board!

I'm not easy to manipulate, and I don't trust someone who tries. Yet I found myself actually wishing I could believe he had a connection to some higher plane, even when I don't believe one exists. If this man is truly “sensitive” to those around him, shouldn't he have sensed that I called his bullshit? Shouldn't he have gone to DEFCON 4 and fancied up the charade with more assumptions about the men in my life? He was right on with that shit.

Instead, I'm stuck in reality with the rest of the assholes who don't believe in this spiritism crap. I will probably always giggle a little to myself whenever my yoga instructors talk about how a particular posture or breathing pattern “alleviates us of all our future karma,” but will apparently do little with the Taco Bell I shame-ate the previous night. I will probably always roll my eyes when I smell nag champa. And the heavens that don't exist help you if you come at me with a tuning fork, because I will yank that shit out of your hand and hell NO, I won't give it back. Life is meant to be equally saturated with happiness and knowing what you want as it is with confusion, depression and feeling completely lost. It's my fucking Rorschach test, damnit, and I'll figure it out myself.

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