Unbelievably, incredibly late.

She snatched her luggage, ran out the airports sliding doors, stuffed the luggage in a taxi and told the driver to hit it.

It wasn’t the dignified entrance she had in mind for this conference.

But it would have to do.

She signed in at  the entrance quickly, hastily plastered her badge over her left breast, glanced at the map telling her what was where, and started out at a brisk trot.

We’ll call her Dr. Grand High Poobah. A doctor with so many letters behind her name, the alphabet trembles preemptively before she opens her mouth to introduce herself.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah should have looked at her map a little more closely.

She flings open the doors to the room where her colleagues are no doubt listening to the introductions.

If she’s lucky, that is.

She is due to present someone today, and, glancing at her watch as she enters the room, thinks surely she’s in time for that.

A woman comes up to her, asks her name, and reacts impressively as the alphabet quivers from the recital of all those letters behind Dr. Grand High Poohbahs name.

The woman eagerly ushers her up to the podium, which the good doctor was not expecting.

Startled, she puts on her professional face and introduces herself from the podium, squinting a little in the bright lights momentarily.

Her first impression is there are a lot of people sitting up straighter after she introduces herself.

Her second is that none of the people present look dressed for a doctors conference.

She glances at the woman who’s followed her up to the podium, then leans in her direction before quietly asking the woman where she is.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah has belatedly realized she must be in the wrong room.

She realizes correctly.

The woman informs her that this is the annual meeting of hypochondriacs supporting hypochondriacs convention.

It wasn’t her imagination, then.

The eager group in front of her did straighten in anticipation after she announced herself.

She has a decision in front of her as the people wait for her to speak again.

She takes her time about making it, as every good doctor does before prescribing, slicing, or dicing.

But we will get to the good doctor’s decision, and why she made it in a moment.

There is only one difference between our doctor and psychics and mediums.

This is likely a one time occurrence for the doctor.

It is a daily event for us.

If you happen to follow me or be a pal on Twitter, Facebook, or Goodreads, then you know this: I don’t talk about what I do.

All are social networks in my mind; not advertising forums.

I want to be social. I want to talk to people and not let what I do for a living get in the way.

But some days are harder than others.

I’ve been asked several times why I shut off comments on the blog.

Well, it’s simple.

Questions. Via my comments on this blog, on my contact Lydia link, or sent direct to my email address.

Questions: Direct message on Twitter. Sometimes asked right on the Twitter feed.

Questions. Infrequently asked in open threads on Facebook; frequently asked via email. Some people friend me for the explicit purpose of asking me questions.

Haven’t had any on Goodreads yet, but we’ll see. It’s a nice place to be because no one cares what you do; they care what you read.

But that never stopped anyone before.

Once, I was held hostage in a house.

You heard me.

They found out what I did (I had an office in town), invited me over for coffee, and proceeded to pepper me with questions for the next two or three hours.

Sure, I could have gotten up and stormed out; but these were neighbors we are talking about.

You have to live beside them.

My husband rescued me; based on his kill first and ask no questions whatsoever face, I escaped.

When I was a young psychic, starting out, I had a published phone number.

It didn’t take long for me to make that unpublished.

Not long at all.

Because of all those questions.

We’ve moved since, into a rural area where no one is here to ask what I do for a living.

But let’s get back to our good doctor’s quandary; see what she decides in a place I and my colleagues know well.

She stares unseeing at the crowd, who, truth be told, are rustling uncomfortably and wondering when they will get to ask the good doctor for advice and counsel only someone with her expertise can answer.

She sees clearly what will happen if she graciously obliges the large crowd in front of her.

Hours spent answering questions this one time and in this one place is a problem. But not the largest problem.

The biggest problem is that she gave her name and her credentials.

She has a website.

She has an office.

So, it won’t merely be hours of questioning; no, never just that.

If she gives this crowd what it wants, it will be phone calls.

Emails, Tweets, possibly physically showing up at her office.

Definitely calling her office.

All because she humored them this time.

Because she opened the door a crack.

Took one for the team.

Gave an inch.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah stands there a minute longer as the crowd starts to murmur.

Thinking about the time.

The time these well meaning people will take up with their calls, visits, emails, tweets, Facebook pleas for her advice.

For her time.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah knows herself well.

Knows if she answers one question, she’ll have to answer others. It would be fair no other way, and whatever else she might be, Dr. Grand High Poohbah is fair.

This will prevent her from dealing with patients who expect to give and receive equitably.

It has to be fair for her, too.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah has to keep a roof over her head.

She has a car payment to make.

A family to feed.

Her life to tend to.

Her life to live.

And so do I.

Sure, I have trophies.

Doesn’t everyone nowadays?

My trophies aren’t displayed ostentatiously over my fireplace.

They aren’t lurking on my night table.

Or squirreled away in my bathroom closet.

My trophies are stored in my head, where all good awards should reside.

I don’t want cold, sterile metal with my name engraved on it.

It’s knowing not that I won; but that we won.

The best rewards are shared.

Every one has a dream, and I’ve seen them all

But dreams are ethereal things.

As flimsy and insubstantial as words, which are cheap and easily uttered.

One can say anything.

It’s the follow up that counts.

Dreams are easy.

One can lay down, doze, and let it all unfold before their closed eyes.

Dreaming is the easiest thing in the world to do.

Meanwhile in the real world it takes three long years for the aspiring cop to get into the Police Academy.

She was expected to absorb a tremendous amount of legal information like a sponge, and she did.

She was put through an enormous amount of physical pain in training.

I believe they refer to it as fitness; I call it living hell.

But she graduated. The moment she got onstage, it was all worth it.

Took four years for the writer to maneuver her finances into being able to work part time and devote the rest of her time to writing.

The fifth year?

She started getting contracts for her work.

I believe she’s on her fifth book now; maybe sixth or seventh. All I know is I cheer mentally every time another contract comes through…and so does she.

The actress worked full time at her “other job” while putting in the extra hours, dedication, and determination to make it.

She did this by auditioning non stop in whatever spare scrap of time she had free.

She was told she was too fat, too short, her eyes were too close together and other things that don’t bear mentioning.

She got told this frequently for two long, grueling years.

Then she started getting work. Then better work. Then great work.

And I got to hear all about it.

Every once in awhile, I remember our initial conversations.

The ones where each wistfully and hesitantly admitted their dreams to someone at last.

Then heard they would come true.

Not without hard work and effort, of course.

Nothing worth having comes easy.

But it would be theirs for the taking, their dreams.

If only they had the courage to reach out.

Perhaps it helped to have someone else assure them they could grasp what they so desperately wanted.

I doubt it.

What mattered was seeing evidence their eyes could not deny when they were getting somewhere.

Finally getting somewhere.

Dreams matter most to those with the guts to go after them with a will and a way.

Trophies sit there; the ghosts of victories past.

In my line of business, my definition of a trophy consists of what my clients achieve every day.

Their rewards are my awards.

Here’s the thing: Psychics throw readings all the time.

That’s right; we throw readings. Wrong on purpose. Not connecting right. So sorry, don’t want to waste your money, etc, etc.

Why do we do it?

Well, lots of reasons.

Some people are entitled assholes who deserve perfection, and nothing less.

Like the woman who told me she dumped her boyfriend because he put the toilet paper on the roll wrong.

No joke.

No shit.

Lucky him.

Others want fairy tales.

Like the guy who told me he didn’t want me to tell him the truth; he just wanted best case scenarios.

Occasionally, they are mentally ill.

A woman who had underwent a nervous breakdown came to me once. She was in love with her therapist’s husband. The guy had answered the phone at his wife’s office, and then proceeded to take advantage of this poor woman in her time of desperate need…behind his wife’s back.

Why?

Because he could.

A select few are bitter harpies who opt to take their problems out on us rather than actually confront the people and issues in their own lives.

I used to deal with their type quite often; sometimes still do.

They generally call, email, text, get in live chat, or on the phone and rip us new assholes. This species is best located in places where psychics/mediums are rated for the services they provide.

To add insult to injury, after a verbal ass ripping, they then tell the world at large what a bad reading they had.

Lest I forget, psychic and mediums are often cheaper than sex phone lines. Sad, but true.

So people sometimes call hoping to get a little R&R from us; a Rise and Release, if you will.

On one memorable occasion, I told the gentlemen caller that I was certain he had two hands, lotion, and Kleenex. He was summarily invited to use their services and not mine. It wasn’t the first time I’d uttered those words. It won’t be the last.

And we get suicidal people. All the time.

Con artists going by the name of psychic might throw those calls; I don’t know.

But one might be surprised how many psychics and mediums keep important hotline numbers beside wherever it is they read.

I’ve talked a fair few down from the ledge, away from the pills, and out of the same room as a razor.

If a foul mouthed little troll like me has done it, can you imagine what the best among us have done?

People forget all too often that psychics/mediums are human.

In other words, for every person who’s rash, stupid, hurtful, or exhibits frighteningly harmful behavior towards others or themselves; there is a psychic equivalent.

A counterpart, in other words. One who doesn’t mean you, the consumer well.

Who you should walk away from.

But I digress.

The point here isn’t that we throw readings for people who would happily abuse us.

Nor is it that when served a steaming hot shit sandwich, we don’t have to eat it. Everyone does, from time to time. Psychics and mediums are by no means exempt.

But if we can avoid it, we will.

When we have the choice, we make it.

You should, too.

I watch.

It’s what I do.

And so I caught sight of him.

Then I watched for a time.

He had ambition, I could see that.

He had drive, too.

The drive to get to where he was going.

Some might call it destiny; others fate.

Neither mattered to him.

I saw him avoid dark abysses.

Watched as he lightly made his way over obstacles in his path.

The whole time, I admired his surety.

He put his head up at one point.

Like any good citizen would. He looked both ways.

To make sure he was safe on his journey.

He looked both ways several times.

Finally, it occurred to me that he was making a choice, not merely picking a path.

Once the choice was made, he ambled on.

Not too fast, and not to slow.

Just quickly enough to get to his next objective.

But this time, it was up and onward he was planning on.

A flat path offers little resistance.

He wanted to climb; the higher he climbed, the more safety I assume he felt he achieved.

But the higher one climbs, the more dangers, obstacles, and setbacks they encounter.

He made it through.

Not with any particular grace or savvy.

Nor with any strategy I could see.

Something else was driving him further; something I think most of us lose at some point or another along our own paths.

Purpose.

It was with purpose he climbed to his objective.

But he didn’t stop there.

He had another objective.

Stopping never led to achievement or anything else worth mention.

So he went on.

It took time.

All of it did.

He didn’t wait for assistance.

He never looked back.

Never glanced from side to side as he had once before in ascertaining his path forward.

He did it all himself with that same surety of purpose I wish I possessed from day to day.

I lost track of him for a time after that.

A week, maybe two.

I was lucky.

I might have missed him.

But I didn’t…and when I did see him again.

He didn’t require my congratulations.

Didn’t care that I empathized with the ups and downs, uncertainties, risks, and dangers he had faced with me looking on.

He was just a common Asterocampa celtis.

The so-common-you-see-them-every-day Hackberry Emperor Moth whose transformation I’d kept tabs on from caterpillar to cocoon to moth.

He flew off at some point, and my heart hurt just a little bit after that.

Hearts are meant to hurt a little now and again; just as different paths are meant to be walked.

Sometimes we are fortunate enough to have someone cheering us on as we make our way forward.

Other times, others cheer us on without us ever suspecting it.

We each choose our path.

The trick is to walk it.

Frances and Frank lived next door to one another several years without meeting one another.

One day, they found themselves sitting next to one another.

They struck up an conversation that might have appeared odd to others.

But this conversation resulted in them wanting to see and speak to one another again.

Even at that point, they did not know they lived next door to each other.

They had no reason to suspect it, and as their lives flowed like clockwork.

Frances and Frank didn’t bother looking for an explanation as to how they met one another.

They both knew in time, they would meet one another again.

They did meet one another again, much sooner than either had expected.

At dinner that very evening, in fact.

They talked until it was time to retire for the evening.

Both happened to be my patients, so I listened to each glowing report about the other.

Then, I acted.

I arranged another meeting, after informing both that they lived right next door to one another.

Both smiled a secretive little smile at that.

Being no stranger to attraction myself, I knew what that smile meant.

I smiled inwardly, lest it be discovered I was in on the secret.

After that, an glorious love affair resulted.

Frances was a professor before her retirement.

Frank had been something of a soccer star abroad.

Both were intimidatingly intelligent.

But their kindness and courtesy blunted the edge of that fierce intelligence.

I watched their faces alight every single time they watched one another.

I was there the first time they held hands.

For months, Frank courted Frances.

The changes in both were incredible.

Each had, before meeting one another.

Tended more towards isolation.

Not out of depression or disrespect for anyone around them.

Simply because they were free to enjoy their lives as they saw fit.

Many a time I had knocked on their respective doors, and receiving no reply.

Tiptoed in to place a comfortable pillow under their sleeping heads.

They never knew I did it.

But those short cat naps were to be a thing of the past as their courting proceeded.

Frances got her hair done much more frequently than before.

Frank fussed at me to make certain his beard and mustache were trimmed just so.

Both had found something they needed in one another.

Their families, while wonderful, kindhearted, and affectionate people.

Lived rather far away, though they kept in touch often by phone.

As their first year anniversary of meeting one another approached.

I was made aware that a big question was going to be asked of Frances, and soon.

Sadly, I was not there when the proposal was made.

But my heart gladdened when I saw Frances’ smiling face.

Frank tried to be stern, but the most beautiful smile wreathed his features when I gently teased him about his impending “fate.”

Wedding plans were made.

Family flew in to attend the wedding, and to the delight of all involved, everyone got along.

Beaming with pride, Frances became Frank’s beloved bride.
It was shortly thereafter, on a night shift I was not working.

That one of the colleagues I was due to relieve for the morning shift gave me a eye opening report.

She had entered Franks room to find Frances bent over in a most unusual position.

I suppose it goes without saying that Frank was behind her.

She quickly exited the scene, hand covering wide grin on her face.

Happily married life includes intimacy.

We were glad that Frances was sneaking into Frank’s room at night.

You see, Frances and Frank had decided to share adjoining rooms.

Now we knew why.

Anything else done, was done as should be.

In their time, with total privacy, as it should be.

I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to see them laugh together.

Gently hold one anothers hands.

Just be involved with the world again.

In a way, frankly, I had not seen in the years preceding them finding one another.

It never occurred to me in any way, shape, or form that they were any different from any other couple.

It might to you.

Frank and Frances have Parkinson’s Disease.

In Frank, the symptoms have served to slow, and at times, stop his tongue.

He cannot speak quickly, but must wait and work with his body, wringing out the words with time and great care.

Frances body was affected, not her speech.

She twitched constantly despite her meds.

Sometimes I would check on Frances, and help untangle her twitching limbs.

If she was in a good mood, I didn’t get an ass chewing whilst doing so.

I loved Frances for her mouth, her spunk, and her spirit.

I loved Frank for his wit, intelligence, and innate curiosity.

More than once, I waited nearly an hour for a full sentence from Frank.

I didn’t mind, because the sentences were worth their weight in gold.

Their wisdom and dignity while enduring a unthinkable disease taught me so much.

Yet I heard later some colleagues didn’t think it was love at all.

They believed my patients wits were addled, minds gone.

Those colleagues also believed love was something only the young could experience.

They succumbed to their own disease.

I don’t know what awaits those colleagues in their future romances.

But I know this.

I will emulate Frances and Frank.

Love presents many obstacles, no matter what your age.

God willing, I face whatever obstacles come my way as Frances and Frank did.

Rather than be young and terminally, deliberately blind.

Today, many celebrate Jesus Christ’s resurrection from the dead.

For whatever reason, Easter makes me recall the times I’ve shaken hands with Death myself.

I was looking for something on my hands and knees in my twin brother’s room. I don’t remember what.

I do remember getting up on my knees to stare under my brother’s bed, willing the item I was looking for to materialize in front of me.

I recall the slight thud the pistol made as it was placed against my temple.

I don’t recall how I knew it was loaded or that the safety was off.

It was probably the loud click of the pistol being cocked as the gun rested against my temple that clued me in.

I sat still and stared ahead of me. I knew he was capable of killing me.

He’d tried before.

I sat there, waiting to live or die.

And remembered.

We were sitting in the backseat of our parent’s car on our way home. We were nine. We lived in the country, so it was always a long trip. Normally, David and I would play games; like betting who would laugh first, and so on.

But David was bipolar, and undiagnosed at that time.

The only game David wanted to play on that winter night was death.

We hadn’t said anything to one another as we drove on and on. Maybe that set him off. I don’t know.

When he grabbed both ends of my scarf, I was surprised.

Too surprised to fight.

He crossed the scarf against my throat and began squeezing.

First, I tried to remove the scarf, which was nestled warmly against my throat. Easy access to both carotid and jugular arteries. I couldn’t do it; he wouldn’t let me.

It didn’t take long for me to see grey, and then bright white spots against a dark, dark background.

David loosened the scarf a few times; playing with me, it seemed.

I used what little strength I had to breathe before the squeezing began again.

Eventually he got tired of his game. He decided to put an end to it.

It was spots like fireworks that exploded before my eyes, against that black hole of a background.

I didn’t want the gravity…or the seductiveness of that gravity, to suck me in.

Because this time, he meant it.

So I did the only thing I could do; the thing I had done so many times.

I fought.

Weakly, to be sure.

Ineffectively, for certain.

But David allowed it.

I don’t know why, but I won that round with Death.

And as soon as I had recovered my strength, I lunged towards my brother and beat the living shit out of him in the backseat of our car.

I got beaten when we got home. Don’t ask me how my parents didn’t realize I was in mortal peril in the backseat of our car, because I don’t know.

What I know is that after David staggered out of the car, bloody and beaten, I was bloody and beaten right alongside him shortly afterwards.

Briefly I remembered the scene from two years ago as I sat with the gun against my head.

My brother’s breathing was the only sound in the room.

I gazed unseeingly in front of me, knowing only one thing: this time I wouldn’t play.

I wouldn’t beg for my life to amuse my brother, or indicate any distress at all.

It was the distress that amused him.

Amusement kept the game going.

And I was tired.

Oh so tired.

Of playing these twisted games.

If David was going to pull the trigger, he was going to pull it.

From the moment the gun had hit my head, I had used what passed for my wits to think of ways to disarm him.

There was nothing I could do.

And so I walked right up to Death again and shook it’s hand. Passed the time of day. Realized it wasn’t so bad.

If he blew my brains out, it couldn’t hurt as bad as my throat had when he nearly choked me to death.

It wouldn’t hurt at all.

I would be there one minute, and gone the next.

It didn’t seem so bad to me then. It doesn’t now.

There were worse things. I knew them well.

I made my peace with Death that day.

With a gun to my head and the certain knowledge that it could go either way.

I was okay with that.

But Death wasn’t interested.

Death yawned, bored. Decided to walk away for the time being.

I was okay with that, too.

When the pistol was removed from my head, I sat there for a few minutes, still gazing unseeingly out the window in front of me.

Death and I had reached an accord.

I wanted to remember it; put a bookmark in the moment so I could review it. I’d have the chance again.

Death would be back.

And I would be ready.

When I finally got up, I went in search of my brother.

I found him, and I beat the living shit out of him. Again.

Maybe that was stupid. Probably.

But I have never claimed to be smart.

I was eleven.

Death and I were on good terms.

But I would still fight.

If and where the chance exists I will always fight.

Because I would rather fight and die than live and know myself to be a coward.

I’m intellectually aware I should post something thrilling today. In fact, I had two topics in mind…one of which I will tackle next Friday.

But I have spent the better part of today mowing and weed eating three acres of lawn.

So while I might be intellectually aware I should be posting something interesting, I lack the physical capability to actually do so.

Until next Friday…

(Edited to add: We’ll see if I post on Friday. Threw one out Sunday, instead. Have loads of errands to run on my favorite day: Friday the 13th! So we will see what we will see.)

I learned powerful magic when I was seven or eight years old.

Not the kind that will curse wrongdoers to suitably gruesome deaths or reunite star crossed lovers from perilous situations and terrible distances.

No, I learned a much more potent type of magic.

I learned how to bake.

There was very little food in the house, and hadn’t been for a few weeks.

As a matter of fact, the day before our lone meal had been one small bowl of popcorn each.

But we didn’t each really get a bowl. My mother pushed her bowl towards us, and went without. As she usually did when there wasn’t enough.

My parents went out a day or two after that.

I didn’t know where they went, and I didn’t care. Kids are selfish, and their needs come first. Or at least, mine did.

Only years after the fact did I realize what sacrifices were made on my behalf.

What I did know and care about at the time was that I was very hungry. I had been for awhile.

I never got used to being hungry. On the rare occasions my parents bought jello or cocoa, I waited until they weren’t watching and squirreled some of the precious stuff away. Into my room, in secret places where no one would ever think to look.

So I wouldn’t have to be hungry for awhile.

My brother and I were going through the cabinets, looking for anything we might be able to eat.

We didn’t expect to find anything; but hope springs eternal. Never more so than in a child’s heart.

My eyes fell on my grandmother’s recipe book at some point; I remember that.

I remember the sense of excitement I felt when we realized we had enough things on hand to bake something.

I don’t remember how big the mess we made was, or anything other than the fact that we could fill our bellies with what we baked.

So we did.

Necessity opened the door. I walked through without ever looking back.

And the magic came with me.

I bake cakes and had my kids deliver them to veterans every single Veteran’s Day. I want to thank them for their service, but something in me rebels at showing up at their door and telling them so.

I volunteered to whip up sweet treats for bake sales to buy Christmas gifts for the elderly at nursing homes. None of the recipients knew I did it. I didn’t want them to. To call attention to such a thing is to negate the purpose entirely.

When I heard about the neighbor who had lost her job and didn’t know how she was going to manage feeding her kids, I got to work. I didn’t single her out. I had my kids make deliveries to every single neighbor in the neighborhood to cover what I was doing. She and her kids got more than anyone else, but she never knew it.

I didn’t want her kids going without.

I remembered too well what it was to be hungry.

I have baked before weddings and funerals, anniversaries and birthdays, small gatherings and large ones. I have baked for friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers.

Sometimes I saw the magic; most of the time I opted out.

Because the first time I saw the magic was the best.

My parents came back eventually. It was our mother’s face we looked at when they walked in the door.

It was her face our gazes remained on as she looked at what we had done.

I don’t remember making a huge mess, but I’m sure we did.

The mess never occurred to us. We were sure our mother would be proud that we were helping her. Finally helping her.

And she was.

I can still see my mother’s weary eyes taking in the biscuits we had baked. They were everywhere. Piled on the tables, counters, and precariously balanced on every available surface of the small kitchen.

Even today, I can remember the feel of the magic swirling around us like dust motes illuminated by bright sunlight.

Because there was sunlight; I could see it shining from my mother’s eyes as she saw what we had done.

She didn’t say anything; but she didn’t have to.

And now, all these years later, I realize how like my mother I have become.

Baking is my way to show I care when I can’t say it.

I know so many talented people, all of whom possess more magic in their little finger than I have in my entire body.

You are among them, and so you understand.

All truly extraordinary magic is given freely and solely for the delight of those on the receiving end of it.

All magicians will disappear.

But their magic will go on.

There are millions of us and only one of you.

Therein lies the answer, and also the problem.

We aren’t meant to connect with every single person in the world.

That’s why there are millions of us, and only one of you.

Chances are pretty damned good you aren’t going to get the right psychic or medium the first time around. Or the second. Maybe even the sixteenth.

I prefer consumers go to a psychic/medium with a money-back guarantee.

Ever notice most psychics don’t offer that little guarantee?

Yeah, I think there’s a reason for that. I don’t like the reason, and I don’t understand the reasoning behind it.

Some of my colleagues will not be pleased that I’m throwing this particular information out there. Obviously, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Lots of legitimate psychics bitch, whine, and moan about how they aren’t taken seriously,  or are mocked, hissed at, spat on, etc, etc.

There’s a reason for that.

That reason has an awful lot to do with expecting money handed to them regardless of their actual performance.

I offer a money back guarantee, and I use it liberally.

Not because I’m a shining example of humanity…but because I most assuredly am not.

And I fucking know it.

I know I won’t connect with every single person, because I’m not supposed to. My personality is not what most would call genial.

I don’t believe in telling someone they are going to shit gold and piss rainbows. Life doesn’t operate like that. No one should expect it to.

I do believe if the perception of psychics and/or mediums is going to improve, it will only do so because some of us band together and show people we don’t expect money handed to us for no apparent reason other than we claim we can see/know things other “normal” people can’t.

So be harsh.

Know that odds are against you connecting with psychics. Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe it will only take a few times for you to find the right psychic for you.

Realize that most psychics/mediums ask for money up front. This is because we got screwed without benefit of lube many times before instituting such a policy.

Do NOT put any money up front until you have asked the psychic/medium in question if they offer a money back guarantee. If they don’t…be cautious.

Because I can’t say psychics and mediums who don’t offer money-back guarantees are not legitimate.

But I can say if they are asking you more questions than you have asked them.

If they suddenly start freaking out and saying you are cursed/have dark energy.

If they tell you that you should see them and them only.

If they aren’t getting one damned thing right.

You need to ask for your money back.

Make us earn it.

Frequently Mistaken Assumption: I can see into your brain effortlessly.

Reality: Nope. And this comes up a lot. A whole lot. I’ve seen people all but run from me when I’m introduced at parties, social gatherings, events and what have you because they assume their every secret is privy to me with my “special” sight.

I can’t wander around the supermarket aisles telling you good ole Uncle Fred is right over your shoulder, and wants to let you know you forgot to turn the oven off. I can’t tell you that you’d better dump the bitch/bastard who’s been taking a helluva lot more than they ever intend to give  you either…even if good ole Uncle Fred tells me too. Unless you grant me permission to look by asking me a question, I can’t tell you anything at all.

All I need is a question.

And all you should have to do in ANY reading is ask the damned question. After you ask it, it’s all up to me. The only question I will ask you is, “Make sense?”

What do I expect as an answer? “Yes, no, or makes sense.”

I do NOT want you telling me everything, or really anything at all. Because if you do, you are giving ME information to work with.

That is an abyss you do not want to fall into. Not because I’ll use it against you; I won’t. No, it’s because if you decide to consult someone else who is less than legitimate, they won’t hesitate to take you for a ride on your own dime…and with the information you gave them.

Most con artists have the gift of gab. You give them any information, they can twist it around and make it look like they are brilliantly reading you, when all they are really doing is just repeating what you’ve said, in a different way.

Takeaway Value: I’ve done plenty of readings where men and women have gasped and told me I was telling them what they were thinking. That’s how readings should work.

Hell, one of my good friends really did run away from me when she asked her question. I told her what worried her, and then answered those worries without her having to say a word.

She avoided me for awhile, but hey: she ASKED for it.

Which is the whole point.

The less you say in a psychic/medium reading; the better off you are.