Lydia Aswolf

Ok, people, I hope you didn’t miss my guest appearance on David Jame’s show on blogtalkradio last night, it was a hoot, took a lot of great callers, and hope to on Psychically Correct tonight!

Suzanne and I will be tackling a subject Michael Mapes and I touched on last week…psychic kids, and also touching on misconceptions that are held about psychics and mediums, some of which I touched on in a recent blog post, but God knows, we’ll go in more detail..hopefully enough to make you blush!

See you tonight

My talented colleague who just happens to have a killer Scottish accent, David James, has a great show starting up on blogtalkradio, and he’s honored me by asking me to be his first guest! It’s a super special edition of the Spirit Weaver, and I am so looking forward to guesting tonight..it’s going to be at 9pmEST, and I’ll post the link below, but need to remind everyone of a few things beforehand.

1. David knows me. This is fairly crucial. I will whack him upside the head verbally and tease him mercilessly, and you know what? He likes it.

2. If you wear a pacemaker, puke easily, or have serious medical condition, it might be best not to tune in. One never knows what I might say, as I am both vulgar and gross at the same time, a feat I like to think I have perfected over the years.

3. If you can deal with 1 and 2, you are my kind of person, and should absolutely call in. Be prepared for whatever I might say, and be aware the more I like you, the more shit I shall give you.

4. David is Scottish. I believe I’ve said that already, but I have on occasion observed people who have insisted to David that he is Irish. He has the lovely accent to go with his Scottish self, so if you happen to need a mandatory sexual fantasy to work with, and are on a short deadline, tune in tonight.

5. I myself have a suckass accent. So, while I would love to unwittingly provide some sexual fantasy for some lovely woman or gorgeous man out there, it is my solemn duty to inform you my voice isn’t good for that sort of thing. I’m sorry.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/thespiritweaver/2009/03/31/the-spirit-weaver-radio-with-david-james

That’s the link..use it at 9pmEST tonight, for some laughs, questions answered, or as noted above, for that sexual fantasy you needed at last minute.

See you tonight

So, I’m a psychic/medium.

Whoop de doo.

I am constantly amazed at people’s reactions of what I do for a living.

I live in the Bible Belt, so I figured at some point, I might be pelted with Bibles.

That would be really funny, considering I’m also a ordained minister.

You can imagine my pleasant shock when I realized most hardworking, decent people in my community were actually nice.

Sure, I got the “Oho, you’re a psychic, bet you know my name,” crap, but anyone who asks me that I normally don’t want to read for anyhow.

I got the people who backed off and didn’t want to be in any physical proximity to me.

Which I also find quite amusing, as I read for people all over the world, so physical distance isn’t a factor.

I got the jealous people who hate me and talk smack because of what I can do.

I get the groupies who think I can fix their lives for them.

Which brings me to Misconception Number One: That it’s my mission in life to gather people and fix them.

Literally nothing could be further from the truth.

I can guide you, I can help you see why you’ve done this or that, I can tell you where your life is going, and what choices you have to encourage where you want to be, and what to avoid.

I can even point out if the guy or gal you are interested in sucks in bed.

But I cannot “fix” you.

If you ache and cannot establish a reason why, or cannot get rid of fear or move forward.

I can help with that.

But I cannot fix you.

Only you can do that for yourself.

Misconception Number Two plays into this.

I am not God.

I will never be God, and therefore, I am not 100% right all the time, nor will I ever be.

Ethical psychics will tell you this.

They will also tell you a little about Misconception Number Three.

We psychics/mediums are NOT meant to connect with every single person.

Maybe I’m too blunt.

Maybe that psychic is to sweet.

Maybe another psychic paints a pretty picture, but doesn’t dwell on the bad stuff.

Believe me, you need to know about the bad stuff.

Last but not least, maybe they just don’t get it right, in which case you move on to someone else.

We are not meant to connect with everyone..which is kinda why there are so many psychics and mediums practicing, eh?

Misconception Number Four drives me nuts, personally, and is kinda related to Misconception Number Three.

We are no more saintly or “with it” in our personal lives than you are.

I get sick of this halo of light being projected around psychics and mediums.

Believe me, I do readings for other psychics and mediums.

I’ve even had other psychics do readings for me.

So it is with great authority I can tell you we are just as fucked up as you are.

Some of us, more so.

One term that personally bothers me is “lightworker.”

It’s bandied all about by psychics in particular, and I don’t mean to be offensive to them.

But gee, as Michael (michaelmapes.org, check him out, he’s amazing) said on my last show, not all lightworkers are psychic.

I opined that the janitor down the road, the cashier at a grocery store, and my mail lady are all lightworkers.

It is not a term we own, or that applies just to us.

This term applies to anyone who brings light with them, who gives of themselves to make other people’s lives better.

Before I catch any flak, I want to say that there are most definitely lightworkers in the psychic/medium field.

I just don’t feel the term should be associated exclusively with psychics/mediums, is all.

Misconception Number Five chaps my ass.

That we “owe” it to the world to give free readings.

Misconception Number Six plays into this..that if you are a born psychic/medium, you are always going to practice, or going to be perfect right out of the starting gate.

I happened to be born a psychic and medium, and I was in no shape til around 20 to give readings.

Just as with doctors, one has to devote years of actual education to be a proper psychic or medium.

Because of the years I put into my own education, and as others who have seen to their educations first, then entered the work field to be paid handsome salaries, so do I charge for the services I offer, though I do tend to give lots of free time which cannot be said of other career fields.

In my field, free time is necessary to make sure I am connecting properly,  as the burden of proof is on me, and I take it very seriously.

Because of the years necessary to learn, then to actually apply what you’ve learned, and practice.

Some psychic/mediums who are born with the gift don’t practice.

Can’t say I blame em.

Some people can’t handle the sight of blood.

Some people can’t have a fear of heights.

And some people can’t handle having dead people talk to them in the middle of the night.

Or seeing what is going to happen next in a friend’s life.

Most psychics/mediums explore the occult when young.

I myself could depend only on what I see, but I preferred to educate myself on the tarot, palmistry, Native American Medicine, and astrology…all of which I studied voraciously throughout my preteen and teen years to achieve a true understanding of.

Most other psychics do much the same.

Misconception Number Seven is that all legit psychic/mediums are born that way.

As is the case with David James (psychic-wisdom.net) who was in a car accident which propelled him into the psychic realm.

David tears the hell out of Misconception Number Seven, because he’s the real deal.

Anyone can develop their psychic/medium abilities, though oftentimes it helps to have a support group, of which I’m sure there are many online.

You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve made a few good points here.

But to be honest, I have to now go and get involved in a game of tag.

We have a kid sleeping over, and they are playing tag.

However, two are using the much despised ‘tagback’ technique, which is pissing both myself and my youngest son off.

So, as a team, we are going to march forward and kick their asses.

Like I said.

Whoop de doo, so I’m a psychic.

TAG

You’re it.

His right of passage had come.

Her night to die had arrived, far too soon.

She meant to do nothing more than grab something to eat.

He saw a opportunity that could not be ignored.

She had no idea he had seen her, or was zeroing in as she ate.

When she did realize he was coming, it was too late.

Running and hiding did not work.

He had above average eyesight, and tracked her no matter where she hid.

Viciously catching her head, he slammed her against the ground.

Rising to her feet with difficulty, she tried to run.

When he followed and caught her yet again, knocking the breath out of her.

She lied there, gasping for blessed air to return to her lungs.

She hoped in vain that all he wanted was sport.

Sport was something she could survive, after all.

Lying there looking up at him, she became angry.

She rose up and fought for her life, though she did not know this at the time.

Had no idea of the horrors yet in store for her.

She fought bravely and with courage, yet he swept her aside as if she were nothing.

Grappling with him, she felt his enormous strength, resolve, and yes, curiosity.

He was not used to this then.

She had a chance.

Then he bit her.

She was so stunned, she did not fight, but instead shivered as shock began to set in.

Seeing his advantage, he threw her in the air.

Pawed at her as she hit the ground, hitting her brutally, over and over again.

Still she did not give up.

She rose up again, dizzy, disheveled.

Fought again.

Found herself on the ground gasping for breath.

Another bite wound, this time on her shoulder.

Her fear became great then.

She could not equal him in strength.

She could not run.

She could not hide.

Yet still, hope survived.

Where there is hope, there is the will to fight on.

Wearily, she drug herself to her feet again.

Launched a counteroffensive before he had time to react.

Swiped at his face, bit HIM out of fury and a desire to throw him off guard.

He leapt back, startled that he could be challenged in such a way by such a small specimen.

Hope flared, and she continued the attack.

Cautious now, he approached from different angles, hitting the most tender areas.

Biting when he could.

She still stood, swaying on her feet.

Just wanting to survive.

Suddenly, as the last of her adrenaline reserves were called into play.

She ran.

He easily caught her, and the beating, biting, battering continued.

We’ve all seen movies where the good guys win.

Where at the most crucial moment, the heroine finds the determination and anger within to fight.

To win.

But this was not a movie.

This was reality.

In the real world, in this small drama that was unfolding.

She lay on the ground, gasping, in shock, and unable to get up.

He stalked around her in a circle, occasionally reaching out for another hit.

Another bite.

Shock has it’s blessings, and this case was no different.

She could not feel his repeated blows, nor the bites.

Could not realize she was being kicked and pummeled, and thrown in the air, time after time.

Unknown to both parties in this ugly, pitiable scene.

A face watched from a window nearby.

This face reflected emotions varying from sorrow to stony indifference.

The scene witnessed, after all, plays itself out countless times over the course of one day.

Every day.

The mind behind the face knew this.

Knew what it was like to be the cat, strong, curious, powerful.

Had been the mouse many times, struggling to survive, wanting only to eat, sleep, and provide for a family.

For this saga was merely a game to the cat, his rite of passage, his first kill.

To the mouse, it was life or death.

This mouse’s death did not pass unnoticed.

Mine was the face that observed the “game” that proved deadly to the mouse.

I observe.

I do not confine my observations to humans.

There are so many lessons to be learned from animals.

This was merely a lesson that deserved reinforcing.

Reality dictates at times we are either the cat or the mouse.

The lessons that can be learned from observing the small dramas around us can prove invaluable.

Looking, but not actually seeing.

Listening, but not truly hearing.

Can, as was the case with the mouse.

Prove deadly.

Damn straight, we scored the MAN, aka Michael Mapes to appear on Psychically Correct tonight! If you haven’t had the chance to hear Michael yet, you need to tune in tonight at 10pmEST on themixtalk.com, because the man isn’t just a scary talented psychic and medium, he’s also HILARIOUS to boot.

If you wanna check him out, head to michaelmapes.org, or just click on my list of great psychics…because he certainly fits that profile!

Can’t wait, gonna strap on some Depends before we go on air..yeah, he’s THAT funny!

See you tonight

Well, the past two days have been a total whirlwind.

I’d forgotten you see.

My oldest son returned from Florida, got a job, and immediately started working, and saving for his own place.

Now he has it.

However, I had forgotten the absurdities of getting your first apartment.

I pride myself on following traffic laws.

I’ve never gotten a ticket in all the time I’ve had a license.

The last two days put me closer than I ever want to be again to getting a ticket.

It started on Thursday, Aaron’s day off.

By a fluke…or ahem, psychic inspiration, I had recommended he call some numbers I had saved on a paper, and as I scrabbled to locate it.

Aaronhappened to call a number in the paper that advertised one bedroom apartments for rent.

It was the same number that I was scrabbling for, and eventually found.

Turns out they had one apartment left, and if we got there, we could have to keys to go have a look see.

So off we set.

Our original goal had been just taking him to deposit a check in the bank (he doesn’t have a drivers license).

Our goal changed significantly.

We got to the realtors office, got the keys, went to the apartment.

However, I am geographically handicapped.

So we literally roamed the same street for ten minutes until I located the right complex.

Aaron, proudly brandishing the key, opened up.

It is open, spacious, and when we opened a large closet to see a washer and dryer.

We did a happy dance together and hugged one another, laughing.

We roamed further, dishwasher, large bedroom, nicely sized bathroom.

Sure, it reeked of smoke, and the carpet was a little stained.

But so far as Aaron and I were concerned, we’d hit the jackpot.

You see, Aaron has been walking three miles, as his Mother did before him, every single day, to work.

As we gazed out the front door of this apartment?

We could see his work from the front door.

So it was, crowing in triumph, we returned to the realtor, Aaron filling out applications, making out a check for his security deposit, and so on.

Turns out, we also had to get copies of police and sheriff’s reports, plus pick up copies of his pay stubs.

We had two hours.

It was necessary that he turn in all these items so that he would be able to be approved to get the apartment the next day.

I was a woman possessed, I assure you.

My husband Brian, always told me, if you want in a lane and there is heavy traffic, you signal and ease in, irregardless of the vehicles hurtling directly at you.

This was the first time I tried it, and honestly?

It worked beautifully.

We hit home first, Aaron running in the door, grabbing pay stubs, and running back out.

We frantically watched the clock and waxed enthusiastically about the details of Aaron’s First Apartment while en route to the police department.

I myself fidgeted uncontrollably while waiting for him to receive his clean record.

As he received his paperwork, I was up and walking for the door.

We hit the sheriff’s office right before it closed.

A moments work, forking over of cash, and we were out the door and gunning the engine right back to realtors.

After the paperwork was turned in, we were informed Aaron would find out in the morning if he was approved.

I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed for possibly the first time that day, having no idea that tomorrow would be much more taxing on my system.

I asked Aaron to let me know as SOON as he had word, so that I could pack up some extra things he’d need, so he didn’t have to buy them.

I received word at 10am.

Unfortunately, Aaron was working til 3pm.

I told him I would be waiting for him, so we could go and collect the keys.

I picked him up, and off we went, waxing again enthusiastically about the wonderful place he was going to have.

When we arrived at the realtors office, we were informed that Aaron needed to pay to transfer the name for his water and electric and present proof of this to realtor before getting his keys.

We had a hour and a half, and the offices for electric and water were literally across town from one another.

I was certain we could do it.

Little factoid about me…once kicked into gear, I am a force to be reckoned with.

So it was, we rocketed to the electric company.

Unfortunately, not only did Aaron not have his Social Security Number on him, but somehow my husband was in charge of the account, so initially I felt we were doomed before we began.

My husband being in charge of the account sucked, because if we didn’t cosign for Aaron, he was going to be hit with $190 deposit.

However, when informed of our situation, the lady kindly kicked things into high gear.

She spoke to my husband on the phone, and told me I could fax in the social security number and paperwork Brian would fill out to make our account a joint one, thereby waiving the $190 deposit Aaron otherwise would have paid.

I formulated the plan from thereon.

We would leap out of the van upon arriving home, Aaron would run get his social security number, Brian would fill out paperwork, I would be standing by the fax machine, ready to go.

We ran into a bit of difficulty when Aaron could not locate his social security card.

Minutes passed like hours until he located it, and, clutching Brian’s completed paperwork, I jammed both into the fax machine, hit send, verified it had sent, with Aaron holding his breath beside me.

We RAN up the stairs, into the van, booked it for the water company.

When we arrived, we had twenty minutes before the realtor’s office closed.

Again, the kindness and understanding of strangers is something never to be taken for granted.

After explaining our situation, the lovely lady behind the counter had us ready to go in seven minutes.

Upon receiving his paperwork, my oldest son literally shoved me ahead of him, screaming at me to run, run, RUN.

So I ran.

Gasping as I entered the vehicle and fired it up, I reminded him he should be thankful I had him young, so that I could still run.

Off we raced to the realtor’s office, arriving approximately five minutes before they closed.

We sat in a office while I went over the pages of his lease and explained everything in detail to him.

I showed him where to initial, what he was initialing for, where to sign, and what those signatures were for.

Lease completed, Aaron was holding the keys with a glazed look in his eyes as we walked wearily to the van.

When we returned home, Aaron exited the van and held the key high above his head in a timeless gesture of victory.

I myself was exhausted.

Every last bit of adrenaline I possessed had been used, so I was slumping quite literally.

We helped him move most of his possessions in his new place, as he wanted to spend the night there.

I will oversee his getting a bed and furniture delivered (on his own dime) this coming Tuesday.

All the anxiety, the forms, the chewing on knuckles in fear we might not make it.

What I have yet to do to assist him.

It was all worth it, to hear him say.

“Mom, none of this would have been possible without you. I cannot thank you enough, EVER, for all you have done to make this possible”

I think all Mother’s long to hear those words come out of their offspring’s mouths.

There is much yet to do.

But somehow, knowing he feels that way.

It’s all worth it.

David James of psychic-wisdom.net informally challenged me to take a St. Patrick’s Day pic….and I did, so here it is..enjoy, run to vomit, pull your hair out, or you know, just scream!

As a safe alternative, you could just have a Happy St Patrick’s day.

Just a thought.

So, we have another teenager about.

This time, it’s a cat.

Fonzie is his name, and we adopted him as a kitten from the animal shelter.

I posted about his traumatic first day, and here I return to post about his adolescent stage.

I find it interesting that in the animal kingdom, the teen years aren’t much different from we humans.

I have plenty of experience with teenage humans, because I have five boys, three of whom were teens who have morphed into fairy responsible young men.

But had I known how difficult teen cat years would be…well I would have still adopted Fonzie.

Being no stranger to angst and odd hair styles, I’m well adapted to the challenge.

I noted the teen years had come to Fonzie when he decided to stubbornly stalk into my youngest son’s bedrooms whilst they were sleeping and scratch, claw, or bite them.

I viewed it as something of a hazing ritual, akin to what boys in dorms do during their college days.

Unfortunately for Fonzie, the youngest two are six and seven, and for some reason, choose to sleep together.

They were not thrilled about waking up to find their fingers being nibbled on, or awaking to a cat scratch.

So it was my husband, Brian, and I intervened.

At first, we merely removed him from the room.

During his kitten stage, this was easily enough accomplished.

However, as these teen years have set in, Fonzie has been known to go into their rooms five times in a row, no matter how many times he’s (gently) thrown out.

As teenagers need food, Fonzie has food on both the upper level of our home, and the basement.

This turned out to be a blessing, as due to his insistent stalking of our youngest two, we would usher him to the basement then shut the door.

It also turned out to be a curse.

Teens are social creatures, and as soon as my son, Aaron, who is twenty, left for work, Fonzie would set up yowling when Aaron shut the basement door behind him so as not to disturb his brothers, who were still sleeping.

My husband is not a  fan of yowling, so he would let Fonzie out in the morning to greet my youngest sons and see them off to school.

Teens like to explore, so Fonzie wanted outside to see what was happening.

I let him go out, in part because we have a fence in place, which I’m sure he could escape, if he seriously wanted to.

And in part because I’ve seen to his birth control, so he doesn’t get a lovely female cat in a family way.

Birth control also means Fonzie doesn’t wander out of our backyard, yet I’ve seen the same mix of bold and frightened that my own sons evidenced during their teen years.

For instance, the first time Fonzie heard sirens outside, he wanted to confront them, yet was torn with a urgent fear for his own safety, which ultimately propelled him into our front door.

Then the issue of socializing with his peers arrived.

If you don’t listen to my radio show, you won’t have heard about the idiot neighbor who, during the ice storm, abandoned her home for a week, and in doing so, her cats.

One died before I realized there was a issue, and the remaining cat, with the charming name of Ghetto (which perfectly describes his owners) I feed every day.

Ghetto is street smart, the wise elder, and older than Fonzie.

So of course, Fonzie thinks he’s great.

However, Ghetto doesn’t return the respect that Fonzie gives to him, so there have been a few tense moments.

At these times, while I watch Ghetto stalk Fonzie, I often wonder exactly why street cred is necessary.

The gaining of street cred with cats can be a bloody proposition as is…but Ghetto hasn’t attacked Fonzie, just put the fear of God into him.

This relieved me a great deal, as I’d seen Ghetto and a feral cat come away bloody and limping from a encounter with one another, so I’m rather convinced (for now) that Fonzie is well in line, and Ghetto will not harm him.

Last night, however, I witnessed for the umpteenth time how stupidity affects teenagers.

I know cats.

I know their rules, having been fascinated and observing them literally all of my life.

So when a huge black cat entered my back yard last night and challenged Ghetto, I watched carefully and closely.

Mostly because stupid assed Fonzie decided he would call attention to himself.

Considering this black cat probably could literally eat Fonzie for breakfast, I thought this unwise.

What tickled me was, after having attracted the calm regard of this cat, Fonzie realized his peril and then had nowhere to go.

He sat there, twitching, but unable to move forward or back.

In the meantime, a slow motion dance of sorts was going on between black cat and Ghetto, who wasn’t willing to back down, yet wasn’t willing to stand up and fight, either.

My oldest son and I sat on the back porch and watched the slow motion show, and were very relieved when it was over, no cat harmed, each backing down in their own way.

I had provided my son with a running commentary on what each specific movement meant, kinda like a ESPN announcer at a game…and he was fascinated.

He told me he rarely thought about animals or the rich lives they lived, and he had no idea cat society was so layered and complex.

He also let me know he’d be happy to come running if another conflict loomed.

I recalled Fonzie sitting on the steps with me, watching intently as the conflict between Ghetto and black cat began.

Which to me, just proves that while we may be different species.

Our behavior is often the same.

One sunny summer day when I was five.

I was ripped away from my father forcibly by a police officer.

My twin brother, David, was ripped away from my mother by a social worker.

Sobbing uncontrollably, we were then stuffed into a police car.

We had no idea what was happening or why.

Neither the police officer nor the social worker told us squat.

We drove for what seemed like a long time, thankful in some dim, distant corner of our minds that we had one another.

We stopped at a home we’d never seen before, and were summarily ushered in by the cop and social worker.

They introduced us to our new foster parents, Martha and Rick.

We were nearly feral children.

Our parents suffered from a below average pedigree.

Mom was and is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, manic depressive, and last but not least, paranoid schizophrenia.

Dad was and is dyslexic and mildly retarded.

This did not for superior parents make.

Sometimes, my parents had trouble feeding themselves and paying the bills.

They took their rage and frustration out on us.

I personally preferred being beaten to their good moods.

When Dad was in a good mood, he liked to do things to me.

In fact, going hungry was preferable to what I had to do in order to get food.

Mom just slept, or watched from a distance while vile things were done to me.

When things were really bad, we would be put in our rooms, belted to within a inch of our life, and kept there, for three or four days without food or access to a bathroom.

During those days that passed as slowly as years, we learned as toddlers what the rules were.

If you tried to go to the bathroom, you were belted again, and another day or two was added to your penance.

Therefore, we pissed down vents.

Became masters of defecating and hiding it for when we were allowed out to flush it down the toilet.

So I suppose it was somewhat understandable we were taken from our parents.

Rick and Martha seemed okay at first glance.

You’ll appreciate I’m sure that we didn’t trust them a inch.

We trusted no one but one another; we were twins who had always suffered together, after all.

It was three nights in that we realized there was worse torture in store for us than what our parents had subjected us to.

Rick was joking and teasing us, when he said “Now, who wants a spanking?”

My brother and I thought he was joking.

Turned out, he wasn’t.

When we would not volunteer, he ordered one of us to nominate the other for the spanking.

Neither of us spoke up.

He nominated David, and I threw myself at him, begging to take the beating on David’s behalf.

Laughing, Rick pushed me away.

So it was I was forced to watch while my twin was beaten.

From that moment on, it was a game to Rick and Martha.

They wanted to see if they could bend us to their will, if they could compromise our love for one another.

David and I were separated from that moment on, and made to choose.

Either take food from the other, or don’t eat so that the other would.

I wish I could say David and I were noble.

But we were only five, and hunger tended to gnaw at us more than your average five year old.

We’d went without so many times, you see.

So there were times that David chose to eat, knowing I would not.

Times that I chose to eat, knowing my twin would not.

We were punished for the others infractions as well.

I remember clearly standing in a corner watching the sun come up and go down.

All because David spilled a little bit of cereal at breakfast.

I remember questioning a decision Martha had made, and David having to stand in the accursed corner, watching the sun rise and set.

When we were allowed to be together, it was closely monitored, and more indignities were presented to us.

There were, of course, other children in the foster home.

The one I remember best was Cindy, a little girl who was just learning how to talk.

We giggled a lot with Cindy, because she couldn’t say “fork.”

She said “fuck.”

One day, whilst eating breakfast, Cindy vomited in her cereal.

Noting this, Martha asked which one of us would finish her meal.

Turned out, we had some fight left in us.

Neither of us did.

We were beaten soundly, and put in separate rooms the rest of the day.

Because of this, other options became available from our continuing resistance.

Rick and Martha killed one twin with kindness, while the other went without.

They took turns at this, to see who might break first.

I like to think we were born fighters.

But how much can you take?

How much fight is there in you, when no one has been on your side all along?

So, we learned to adapt.

We learned to hate.

We acted as if we cared, but we only wanted what was offered to us.

After all, with our background, swimming trips, visits to the library, bowling, and skating were things we had never had.

We hated them with a passion bordering on homicidal.

And we hated ourselves, for giving up even a inch…but we did it anyhow.

They say no man can tear two people asunder.

I can tell you this is wrong.

In the armed forces, they tear recruits down to build them up into something better than they were before.

Unfortunately for David and I, we were not built up, but used as pawns for the enjoyment of one woman and one man.

David and I before this point, had only one another to depend upon.

Now we had become bereft even of that simple privilege.

For love is a privilege, not a right.

Every legitimate psychic and medium I know went through trial by fire when young; this is but one of my trials, many others were experienced, and I survived them all.

My twin brother was just as psychic as I, if not more so.

He did not survive his trial.

On January 28th, 1998, David blew out his chest with a shotgun.

It was his heart he aimed for.

It simply couldn’t take anymore.

Sorry people, but I feel like regurgitated dog shit today, no go on doing Psychically Correct tonight, we will hopefully rebook Keith the producer, lol…for next week, but for now?

I gotta go to the dr, get meds, then lie my ass down for however long it takes.

(Edited to add…just came back from dr’s, double ear infection, nasty cold…on antibiotics now, will hopefully be better soon, and blogging my ass off!)