After having brunch at Polonia with my roommate and LolSam, I decided I'd have to suck it up and go to the nail salon to sit through a horribly boring hour of staring at the wall while my hands are scraped and glossed and I'm perpetually reminded of the caste system in place in this fine democracy of ours (cue: middle class guilt). There was some kind of psychic there chattering on with a younger woman about men and relationships. After she was finished getting her nails done she came up to me and touched my hair and asked me when my birthday was. I told her February 13th and she began rattling things off about me. It was fucking terrifying. Here's what she had to say:
1. You are a people-pleaser. (YES helloooo gratuitous blowjobs)
2. You are highly emotional. (Yes =/)
3. People are jealous of you. (hahahahahahahhahahahah no)
4. You have a lot on your mind right now, I can tell. (Yes.)
5. You have big business ventures in California. (Sadly the first thing I thought of was this.)
It got me thinking about a lot of things, but mostly about how I wish I didn't have to think at all, which is probably why I smoke a fair amount because it is the only thing that shuts my brain off completely. New York is such a clusterfuck of random, disparate emotions clanging up against each other in the hope of birthing symmetry but always failing miserably. This is beginning to read like an Ann M. Martin novel so I will stop there. I think I need to change nail salons: you shouldn't have to be thrown into the depths of an existential crisis by a psychic while you're simply trying to find Essie's Wicked on the nail polish shelf.