I met a real psychic at Eddie Vedder’s place

I’ve met a lot of psychics and astrologers. They’re all useless. If you don’t believe: Just lie about your birthday and let the fun begin.

I was at a party at Eddie Vedder’s house. Eddie doesn’t like me even though I wrote him a nice letter once. He didn’t know I was there. Tycho Brahe brought me. They’re both confirmed star gazers. They both go drinking at the Narrows Sound and watch sunsets all the damn time. I wish they’d invite me, but as I said, Eddie doesn’t like me. He won’t even tell anybody why so I can apologize or whatever.

At the party a woman made a plumb line for me. She was a real psychic. I was unprepared.

She said, “Vivian?”

I said, “Ashley, actually.”

She laughed. I had no secrets from the woman.

I said, “What are you, some kind of psychic?”

“Yes,” she affirmed. I’m glad she wasn’t my type. She wasn’t bad looking but I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass myself if she was my type and I had lewd thoughts that she could read.

“I don’t believe in psychics,” I said.

“Or God, kings, the Sixteenth Amendment, a Beatles reunion, or that those two Thai hookers really wanted to comp you.”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“You just did.”

“Oh,” I said. This was a complete switch. I retaliated, “I still don’t think you’re psychic.”

“I know,” she said, “I can prove it though.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

“You’re bored, a little annoyed, you wish Eddie would just tell you what you did wrong, you wish it would rain, you don’t think I’m your type, and you think this is a complete switch.”

“Wrong!” I barked and kept laughing until she went away.

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