there is way too much delirious insane chit chit chat chat chatter constantly ricocheting off the walls of my tiny brain. and, when i probably should have called a psychoanalyst or a physician or a medicine man or a minister, i instead chose to scrape together all the laundry quarters stashed in various hiding places around my apartment and drag my ass to a goddamned psychic. sometimes i feel like a crazy person, because i'm all in my head all the time, pacing around my place babbling at the cat and forgetting why i got up to go into the kitchen. religion isn't my fucking bag, dude. i'm fine with whatever anyone wants to do, and if spending your sunday mornings trying not to fall asleep in the back of a hot ass church is what you're into then that's just what the fuck i want you to be into. especially since that means you won't be clogging up the brunch line at orange or m. henry or lula or toast or bongo room or wishbone or tweet. i fucking HATE standing outside like a goddamned asshole waiting to get some fucking pancakes or whatever. you either have to get up at 730 on a sunday morning to beat all of the parties of 19 huddled around sipping lattes and impatiently checking the waitlist every thirty seconds trying to figure out their place in line despite the fact that the girl with the clipboard told them the wait was THREE HOURS five minutes ago. or you try to sneak in at ten minutes to three or whatever, right before they shut down to prep for dinner, when all they have left is rye toast and whatever burnt egg they can scrape off the griddle.
i like brunch for two reasons: 1 you can have both CAKE and MEAT at the same meal and no one frowns upon it or even gives you a second glance and 2 most places let you get drunk. as a matter of fact, they encourage that shit. also, eating food when you don't have anything to do later in the day except nap and maybe disinfect the bathtub is just better. i don't work on mondays, and that rules super hard because there aren't any fucking crowds to contend with and the waitstaff is way more mellow and happy to see you. plus, kids are in school. if i never had to watch a child pour milk over an entire table ever again it would be too goddamned soon. and i already know, BRUNCH IS FOR ASSHOLES. but i can't help it. i like pretending my life is like sex and the city.
so i don't go to church because it's boring and i hate god and until someone loads the bible on my kindle when i've got my back turned there isn't a chance in hell i'm ever going to read it. or make it into a puppet show. or a bunch of little dioramas. you know what would be really dope? if univision made that shit into a TELENOVELA. right?! here's what i watch on the teevee: bill maher, big love, top chef, msnbc, and spanish-language soap operas. i'm fluent and, trust me, it's worth it to learn spanish just so you can watch this shit. you dudes need to be watching eva luna, triunfo del amor, y la verdad oculta AHORA. seriosamente. and holy fucking balls the TALK SHOWS. jerry springer doesn't have shit on these. escandalo. you know what else? I'M NOT READY TO GIVE UP BEING BAD. i'm more of a death bed conversion kind of girl, i think. if i have to stop drinking and cursing and coveting and killing and adultering and bearing false witness and having multiple gods to walk the straight and narrow path to heaven i will fail spectacularly before i'm even out of the fucking gate. i'm not good at mini-proclamations like "don't stare at that cute dude on the train," so why would i even attempt something as grandiose as taking the lord's name in vain?! i'm just going to do what serial killers and axe murderers do; i'm going to live my heathen life however the fuck i want and when time runs out on my life clock i'm going to accept jesus into my heart and get a free pass into heaven. bitch, i saw "dead man walking." i know how this shit works, goddamn it.
and you'd think i'd be the kind of miserable jerk to disavow psychics and tarot readers and astrologists but, surprisingly, I AIN'T. that shit is real. or at least real enough that i refuse to reject it outright or talk shit about it. i have a healthy fear of everything i don't understand, which is why i refuse to declare that anything is a fraud. i can speak authoritatively about neither theology NOR evolution, so i stay where i'm better acquainted, with the drunks and the whores and the tax cheats. i can recite the apostle's creed and i've also read a bunch of christopher hitchens, but i still don't think i have a real comprehension of any of it. dinosaurs, aliens, walking on water...all that shit sounds right to me. what the fuck do i know?!
so i asked the internet to find me a psychic not too far from the red line (fuck walking), and it totally did. except what i really mean is that i harrassed the shit out of amanda until she both agreed to go with me AND found the psychic online. safer to do it that way, for sure, as i am a notorious maker of FUCKING TERRIBLE decisions. she found a reputable-looking place with a decent website (why are psychic sites so fucking shitbaggy?!) and a normal-looking woman and i was happy. she ALSO found a bunch of sites with batshit-looking grody old cat ladies with long scraggly hair and art teacher outfits. seriously, like oversize canvas jackets and shit. in awful colors, like teal and coral. i want my witches dressed in flowing black robes and smudgy eye makeup, please.
i called to make an appointment and carolyn, the psychic, answered on the first ring. "i knew you'd be calling," she said, and i PASSED THE FUCK OUT. when i came to i realized that i'd made that up in my mind and hadn't really dialed her number yet. bahahaha. she was super mellow on the phone and said she could see me and ginger at eight-thirty. tuesday morning i was all excited to tell the assholes i work with about how i was about to get all up in my future's ass, and these bitches TOTALLY MADE FUN OF ME. i can't say that i was surprised, but i caught an attitude anyway because fuck them. JERKS. i really have been feeling nightmarishly tweaked out lately, and i'm not sure why. stupid and crazy things are happening in my life right now, and i keep rolling with the punches, but i think the byproduct of joking your way through shit is some residual cray cray. or maybe it's seasonal affective disorder and my irrational hatred of the sun and long days has manifested itself in some mental unrest. whatever. but the minute i made that appointment i felt better. a lot better, actually.
okay, so i work until six every day. and i have no problem at all going out during the week, but if i have to stop by my house before whatever post-workday activity gets going, i am not coming the fuck back out of my apartment. sorry, but the minute i see my pajamas the day is fucking OVER for me. if you want to hang during the week, it better be at seven. FUCK, i'm old. i arranged for ljb to meet amanda and me at bangers and lace, this new bar that just happens to be across the street from our psychic. i don't want to sound like an asshole, but wicker park is fucking horrible. my cabbie was like, "this part of division is so beautiful," (the part west of ashland and east of damen, i'm guessing) "i wish i could live here." and i was like, "REALLY, dude?! what the fuck would you fucking EAT?! ain't no garam masala over here." ain't no brown people over there, PERIOD. i'm surprised the bars don't serve brussels sprouts and skim milk. pfffft. (and BEETS; white people fucking looooove BEETS.)
"i like pizza!" he offered as an explanation. "yeah right, you just want to fuck white girls," i scoffed. he winked at me in the rear view and nodded. UGH, and now we have a secret joke. i hate having secret jokes with people i've never met, like when this asshole and i both saw this woman's pantiliner slip out of her pant leg on the bus and he kept making big eyes and fake laughing in my direction. gross. why do total dirtbags always recognize me as one of their own? he couldn't just sit up front and be the fuck quiet? why he gotta be forcing me to talk about skewering some succulent white meat on his kabob?! dirty little predator. you pretty white girls better travel in packs. before you fuck around and wind up in SAW 9: bollywood. it's deep out here.
ljb was there, as was her friend laura, and at this point i have so many lauras in my life i am going to have to start numbering them. yikes. anyway, that bar is pretty cool, i guess. it's dark, which i like. and they serve corn dogs, which i LOVE. and the bartender looked like rick rubin or some shit, which amanda found incredibly alluring. or maybe rob zombie, because he's less fat. HOLD THE FUCK UP. my most favorite favorite FAVORITE bartenders right now are the dudes who work saturday nights at the southern. holy fucking shitballs, baby. those handlebar mustachioed gentlefellows are BANGING. too bad that fucking place turns into the massengill headquarters after nine o'clock. i could hardly eat my hush puppies without someone in a rhinestone-studded t-shirt splashing DOUCHE all over them. bla-arf. maybe you should just go on a tuesday. those dudes are really hot, though.
but it made me feel fruity to say i was going to a place called "bangers and lace." i mean, come on. that shit is moist. i want to go to a bar called SHIT KICKING CUNT HOLE or FUCK ME WITH A CHAINSAW. someplace righteous and tough. and that place had lace curtains and a wall of mirrors in the bathroom. i probably won't go back. unless amanda wants me to get that bartender for her. because i'm totally good at that.
we left the lauras and their venison sandwiches at B&L (i just can't anymore) and went to find out what the fates have in store for us. i stepped into the street and immediately almost got hit by a motherfucking cab, and i briefly wondered whether or not carolyn knew ahead of time that she was only going to have an appointment for one. my joints are FUCKED UP these days, which is why i'm so salty these days. april showers bring crippled ass samantha, for cereal. before i could even touch the bell the door swung open and carolyn said, "i knew you'd be here." just kidding. we rang the bell and she let us into a little sitting area that was easily nine hundred goddamned degrees. i started sweating immediately, and amanda volunteered me to go first. OF COURSE.
i decided to do tarot, because i love looking like an idiot when someone asks me to shuffle a deck of cards. PFFFT. i cannot, for the life of me, shuffle cards. and i'm the best spades partner you'd ever want to have, but not when it comes to deck shuffling time. these days i can just blame it on my stricken joints and useless bones, but even when i was a kid i didn't have the coordination to properly execute that shit. what a fucking failure, i tell you. anyway, i started sweating even more and she calmly said, "there is no right way to shuffle them. let the stars guide your hands." holy shit, her voice was soothing. i almost slipped into a coma at the goddamned sound of it. so i gave up and just sort of slopped them on the table in front of her. she told me to divide them into three piles. i did that, and she told me to select a stack. i did, teetering nervously on the edge of the chair and fogging up my glasses. i might need to switch deodorants or something.
she dealt the cards out in silence, then sat studying them for a few minutes without saying anything while i LITERALLY sweat through the seat of my pants. finally she looked up and said, "i'm going to tell you everything i see here, good or bad." and while my mouth was smiling and saying, "okay," my brain was screaming, "I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE AND THE CAT IS GOING TO EAT MY FACE FOR THREE DAYS UNTIL SOMEONE NOTICES I'M MISSING." i wiped my hands on my pants (gross sweating groos omg blarf gross) and waited.
"you are an orphan," she said, and i immediately got lightheaded. i just sat there nodding with my mouth open while she said shit like "you are creative, too. a writer, yes?" and "i see some health problems, around your midsection? some intestinal disease?" okay, so i'm a fucking skeptic and i hate EVERYTHING, but that bitch was blowing my fucking mind. she just kept saying shit she couldn't have possibly known with no provocation from me; i hadn't even told her my full name when i'd scheduled the appointment. i sat there like a fucking department store mannequin, nodding like a bobblehead and sweating through the upholstery on the chair. she said that i'm in a good place as far as my job is concerned, which is good considering i'm too lazy and apathetic to work anyplace else. she also said that my creative shit is about to blow up and i won't have to do anything but sit back and let it happen, which is also news to my lazy ears. and is starting to come true, because i just got a radio show and oprah's book club is going to publish my novel. only one of those things is true, but she also said that if i want something to happen i just have to speak it aloud and tell the universe i want it. hear that, universe? O-P-R-A-H. please and thank you.
she started staring intently at the cards again, shaking her head. "well, the only areas of that are unclear to me are the ones surrounding your love life." you and me both, sister. i wanted to tell her that's because it's nonexistent, but she probably already knew that. so i just kept quiet. "i see a lot of people here," she said after another stretch of silence.
"oh yeah? are they all fully clothed and talking my fucking ear off about being in love with other people?" boo hoo. my life suckssssss.
too smart to indulge that she kept squinting at the cards, "i see one person who keeps trying to get into your life, a couple more that are disappointing, and another one who is great waiting patiently in the wings." i am impatient and i don't like guessing games. "can you see what any of them is wearing?" i asked, rooting through my bag so i could text the description to myself. "especially the waiting in the wings one who's awesome? i need to know what to look for."
"i don't want you to do anything," she said. "don't pursue anyone. don't think about romance. don't think about dating, don't talk about sex with anyone." (i had to blink my eyes a couple times to make sure mean mommy hadn't snuck in and kidnapped the psychic.) "just sit back and wait for the universe to dictate what is supposed to happen. and don't make any decisions. just let things happen. oh, and you should be doing yoga." um, okay. while i was happy she said my health shit isn't going to be an issue and happy that i'm not going to have to work at mcdonald's or whatever and was TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY by how scary accurate the shit she said was, i at least wanted to learn how to put a curse on my enemies or get a crystal to put in my bank account or something. what, no candle to burn every night before i go to bed in the hopes that a hot piece of bacon will be lying across from me when i wake up?!
"candles and crystals are only for people who truly need them," she replied. "and you don't. you're fine." when i continued to blink expectantly at her she said, "believe me, sam, if i wanted to sell you some unnecessary merchandise i would. but you'll be okay. the universe will take care of you. trust that." then she ushered me out to the room in which amanda was waiting before whisking her away to read her palm. ginger had had two impromptu palm readings in the past, both with disastrous outcomes, and she was hoping for a good one this time. best two out of three, i suppose? i had hardly started wringing my pants out before she came sauntering out, smiling. we paid carolyn and left in silence before exploding on the sidewalk below. lots of high-pitched, breathless squealing. i told ginger about her ridiculous psychic ability (for reals, dudes, the shit she said about my childhood was dead fucking on) and her advice to "do nothing and let it just happen," then ginger told me she was going to live a long time and should be expecting a marriage proposal soon.
what the fucking FUCK. that bitch isn't even dating anyone right now! i'm not trying to get married, believe me, but the only thing miss cleo has for me after locking me in that sauna for ten minutes is "stop stalking dudes you meet on craigslist," and one glance at ginger's palm reveals some hot future husband on the horizon? is that what fifty dollars gets a girl these days?! too bad that asshole didn't see a malignant tumor in my future, because then i'd feel less bad about wanting to throw a molotov cocktail through the window. wonder if she'd fucking see that coming.
i limped back across the street ready to bang myself with a lace curtain rod. (what a stupid fucking name.) we collected the lauras and piled in a cab to big star, so i could manifest my lamesauce destiny all up in some tacos. a different chatty pervert this time, making eyes in the rear view and jerking his head toward the back seat while whispering, "the one in the middle is very cute." i said something crass and referred to his cab as a "pussy mobile," then decided i was over psychics and cabbies and humans in general and just wanted to cozy up to some horchata. the bitch i like who works the door was there and let us get our regular booth, then i DECIDED (gasp!) to order a trio of pork belly tacos. i also decided to drink some cheap whiskey. you know, to keep me warm while i'm just sitting here not doing anything.
waiting for the universe is fucking boring. wake me up when someone is willing to kill himself for me. zzZzZzzz.