I'm being cagey because I don't want to trip anything up. Right now is one of those times when I feel all opportunity has passed me by, that I will never recapture that which is most important to me. But of course I can't tell you what that is, or the party would stop.
But just on the off-chance that opportunity exists -- that the possibility still is not mathematically eliminated -- I have to jovially move along on the conveyor belt of small talk, gossip and trivia questions, most of which have absolutely no importance or significance to anyone whatsoever, unless they have all the depth of a measuring cup.
And furthermore, in order to preserve this feeling, I have to convince you that the "opportunity" I seek is not necessarily the "opportunity" you expect me to most crave or desire. Let me explain. Let's say you were the opportunity I wanted. Well, in order to get you, I can't let you know how I feel, because it would alienate you. Honesty seems to alienate people. So I have to pretend that it's not really you that I'm after. And that whole problem, therefore, results in the fact that you might be the person I'm really after, and not the other, because in order for me to have a chance at you, you have to have doubt that you're the one I really want. Because otherwise, you'd know you can do whatever the hell you wanted to and I'd still be craving you no matter what. So in order to have you, I have to give off the impression that I don't really want you. Then, when you think I don't want you, you might try a bit harder in order for me to have you.
Isn't that stupid?
Anyway, a lot of things happened this week, some of a relatively large significance, but operating procedures mandate that I tell you they didn't mean a thing to me.
Oh, one other thing: Choose your psychics carefully.
Now, I'm embarrassed about this, but what the fuck -- it's not like I haven't embarrassed myself completely in these diaries before, what's another pathetic admission -- but seeing as how this whole experience with psychics that I've had is officially, now, the basis of a comic novella I'm currently writing, I suppose I should let you all in on the germ of the creative process when it happens, if for no other reason than to inspire would-be creative writers of the future with my own, gutsy admission.
I will, however, set it up thusly: I have sought certainty over the last -- well, 35 fuckin' years, actually, but much moreso over the last nine months. Now, most of us, I presume, live our lives in a tenuous imbalance, a most static uncertainty, which we compensate for through making penis jokes.
Some people find their certainty through religion. That is fine, unless, like me, you require instant gratification.
When I was confused and thrown about a situation that had arisen in my life -- a few months ago -- I consulted a psychic. I asked this psychic two questions. Being cagey about myself these days, however, I will not reveal what the questions were. I don't think it matters because the ultimate result is going surprise you.
All right, now, you know how the spiritual realm is. One day everything could be orderly and straight and relatively clear, no confusion whatsoever, but the next day everything would be different in the spiritual realm. I'm trying to think of a weather-related metaphor that might help me illustrate this but I can't.
Anyway, you realize, you're entrusting your opinion to one psychic, who'd never met you before, and then you think -- well, what if this psychic was just feeling extra-happy that day and was giving out positive opinions to everyone who called or spoke to her? Or, conversely, was having a shitty day and felt like telling everyone their lives were going to hell?
So I sought, and received -- a second opinion. But that wasn't enough either. And a third opinion wouldn't matter either. Listen, I know of at least three other people than me who voted for Ralph Nader in 2000, and it didn't amount to a hill of beans, because the popular vote went to Al Gore. Ahem. So, in an effort to broaden my canvas, to ensure a relatively dependable, believable scientific straw poll, in order to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt, a clear caucus of psychic unanimity -- because I was seeking certainty I could not find from friends, lovers or family -- I kind of, well, you know -- really went all out to get as many cheap psychic opinions as possible.
So I believe that, to date, I've spoken to approximately 30 different psychics.
Mother of fuck, I'm a sick man.
But there's an aspect to this whole thing. Here's the other part. You see, I consider myself very intuitive. I know when shit's happening. I used to think I didn't, but ever since a revelation was made to me a few weeks ago about -- oops, I can't talk about it here -- let's just say, something I was rock-positive about in the past, but was consistently told I was wrong, when in fact I could not have been more right -- I have decided that my intuition is no longer paranoia. Which is why Friday's little anxiety attack was not taken lightly. However, I still, because of rampant and frequent self-criticism and doubt, do not often believe that my hunches are correct. In those cases, I seek someone to tell me my hunches are correct. Since I can't depend on other people to tell me the truth, because it would ruin the party, I have to ask the psychics.
It's still stupid. But fuck it. I'll hunt down certainty as much as it takes. Religion don't do it for me, the Whitney Houston "greatest love of all" doesn't do it for me, superstition does. That's the kind of punk rocker I am.
Normally, I wouldn't be admitting any of this, were it not for the fact that I dearly desire that all SOS users be entertained, even at my own crazy expense. I also wouldn't be admitting this were it not for the fact that these 30 psychics -- from all walks of life, ages, and disciples -- all seem to fuckin' agree with each other.
Basically, each psychic has been asked two related, but essentially different questions from me. Obviously, I'm not going to tell you what the questions were. I'm also not going to tell you what the answers were. But I will give you this startling pair of statistics:
On one of the two questions -- we'll say it's the "outcome" question that holds more direct importance to me -- a whopping 85% of these psychics agreed that the same result would happen. 66% is supposed to be significant.
On the other question -- hold on to your chairs here -- 100% of the psychics agreed on the outcome.
That's right: Out of a possible 30 psychics answering the same question, a total of 30 said the same thing would happen. I don't think Michael Jordan has ever made 30 shots in a row.
I am a foolish man. That we all know. The fact that I've consulted psychics at all makes me more foolish. The fact that I've consulted 30 psychics paints me as some kind of internet moron. But please. That kind of statistical imperative is hard to dismiss. 30 out of 30? If the outcome did go the other way, whoever was involved in this outcome's execution would be bucking tremendous cosmic odds. I mean, come on. Isn't this mass, overwhelming psychic channeling of cosmic opinion a pretty daunting prospect? I mean, come on. Even the New England Patriots had some pundits picking them to win the Super Bowl. Not many, but some.
However, in a straw poll of 30 psychics, in which 30 out of 30 said the same thing would happen, differing with each other only in terms of time prediction, you've got to give some credence to the sheer unanimity of it all.
But guess what? I don't. I don't give it any credence. It's not that I think they may be wrong. It's that I'm having a hard time adjusting to the fact that it shouldn't make a difference -- that I have to, really, honestly, and truly, act as if this question wasn't so fucking important to me. And even if I have 30 psychics -- most of which, I should say, were quite bright, a couple of which were obvious flakes, and two or three of which were REALLY on target about a frightening amount of past and present information, and who I very well may consult again -- telling me "This is the end result, Paul!", I have to work from the M.O. that they'd all told me the exact opposite of what they'd said.
Because that's how you do things here. You put on a party face. If you absolutely can't, you put on a stone face. (That's me.) If you can't do that, you stay home and consult online psychics and type emotional manifestos that would make the Unibomber proud. Or crack 'im up.
And other thing: If, perchance, this 100% majority happened to be right about their predicted outcome, I'd look even more foolish. Why? Because I could have stopped at ten psychics -- even five, to tell the truth -- and not blown so much money on these guys, and the end result would still be the same as if I'd consulted 30. I needed THIRTY different people to reassure me that their predicted outcomes were correct.
Oh, shit.
Like I said, there are two psychics I actually really trust. Not only because they went along with the crowd, but because their statements about other things in my life -- some of which I did not ask them about -- were accurate to the point of scariness. In fact, if you want their help, I'll refer you. Maybe I could recoup some of the cost.
Thirty psychics. Ugh. How depraved is that? I guess we've all been a little uncertain since September 11. But this -- wow, this is really dumb.
I'm sleepy. God, I love sleep. "Eat, sleep and fuck, that's all I wanna do," someone said to me once. "Two outta three ain't bad," Meatloaf said once.
Anyway, I'm writing a short story called "25 Psychics," which promises to be a laff riot -- at least in a Mulan Kundera way. I'm really excited about this one. I may even get paid for it.
But this, my sweethearts, you get this one for free. Whee!!!
