"What is this darkness and confusion surrounding you?" Her voice changed from a normal conversational tone to a strange sing-song cadence, as she looked straight at me.
This is what a $10 tarot reading gets you: a psychic wearing a grey nightgown made out of some jersey-cotton knit, hair tumbling from a hastily made up bun, sitting in a hot room with no AC. Oh yeah....she also smells of cat.
A sign on the wall proclaims her healing, mystical, relaxing powers. The sweat is pouring from my face in acid streams, stinging my skin. I give up trying to daintily mop it up and just swipe the tissue across my face. I keep sweating like a pig...trapped in a sauna....in the middle of a rainforest.
For $10 I get a 10 minute reading but for $275...we...lll. I would get a massage, psychic healing and deep relaxation. If I gave her $275...relaxation would not be my paramount emotion. Beside, where is my damn AC? I'll make do with a fan. Please. Please. I eye the closed door longingly.
Apparently, there is someone in my life who does not want to see me happy and fulfilled. This someone is throwing swords at my happiness. But she (the psychic) can work with me to reverse the spell and lead me to my true fate which is to be surrounded by money and by fame.
"Here, I say," handing over my $275. No, really. I just thanked her, took her card and brochure and bolted.
The last time I got sucked in by a psychic was in San Diego, I was told I had looked after animals in my past life. My aura was populated by "baby monkeys" to whom I had been like a mother. My life would consist of looking after animals. What? I would be the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. Noooo.
I don't know which is worse. Being a whacko baby monkey mother or being the target of someone throwing swords at my happiness?
What's that I see on the sidewalk? A psychic reading for $10 sign. Maybe this time, I'll get lucky. Maybe this one has AC.
Obviously, I need some $275 an hour psychiatric care.
I just want to write damnit. I wany my muse back. Is that so wrong?