Time for a little computer cleanup

Okay, yes I could be doing some homework, but it was very important that I clean up my hard drive and remove all the files that I don't need to save. They are taking up valuable space, don't you know. So here is one of my crazy attempts at writing - saved under "I went to a psychic once". Mom thinks it would be cool to have an author for a daughter. She was thinking Danielle Steel but from this, it looks like I may be a little more off the deep end.

I went to a psychic once. It costs $25 for a middle-aged brunette to flip over some cards and give me some vague clues about what the future had in store for me. I was 19 and at that time $25 was a lot of money. I was working for minimum wage at a local pizzeria. I didn’t like my job. Every night I went home with my clothes, skin and hair permeated with the smell of pizza. Yum, pizza, you might think there are worse things to smell like but next time you have a pizza delivered to your home take a big whiff of the delivery boy. It’s a stale greasy smell that stays with you forever after you have worked in a pizza joint no matter what kind of detergent you use or how many times you wash your clothes.

$25 was my month’s laundry bill or a week’s worth of food. I really couldn’t afford such a frivolous expenditure but I felt bad for the psychic. My friend Maria and I went to the psychic’s store. Was it really a store? What was she selling? Hope? Fear? I just went out of curiosity. Maria really wanted her future told. She was looking for love like the song says in all the wrong places and was interested in any guidance she could get on where to look. Maria wasn’t really interested in paying a lot for this information, which is kind of ironic since she felt that love was the most important thing in the world, the thing she was longing for most. It’s funny how when money enters the picture a person’s value system changes. I wonder if that held true when currency was salt and not pieces of paper? Were people willing to trade the salt for what they wanted most or did they hoard it like we do now?

Maria clearly wasn’t going to part with $25 for the psychic to do her thing. I felt bad. We listened to her spiel on the services she provided and then decided we didn’t want anything. Even when I worked at the pizza place, I got paid even if no one came to eat but this lady just spent fifteen minutes telling us about her powers and we weren’t going to pay her for her services. There wasn’t a line outside of people we prevented from seeing the psychic but still I felt we owed her something. I have a bleeding heart I am well aware of that. Did the psychic know I was coming? Was she able to figure out I was the gullible one? Was sucker tattooed on my forehead like the angelfish tattooed on my ankle? Okay, it’s a henna tattoo. It will wash off in three to five days. No major commitment on my part required. Bob, the henna artist, doesn’t quite understand. I visit him every week. He redraws the angelfish takes my money and sends me on my way. Last time I visited him just two days ago he started again on our timeless argument.

“You know it’d be cheaper if you’d go and get this tattooed for real”, he said
“It’s not about the money, Bob”. Which it isn’t and he knows that. Long gone are the days of the local pizzeria and stressing over an expenditure of $25.
“Well, if you insist on getting a henna every week, you should change it up a little. How about a pretty dolphin or a rose? You know I am quite an artist. I can pretty much draw anything you’d like”
I’d seen Bob’s artwork on many occasions. “I don’t doubt that you can draw. I am just partial to the fish”
“Tattoos don’t really hurt. After you get one it just feels like a sunburn for a bit”. And of all people he should know. Save for his face, I don’t think Bob has a piece of flesh that is untouched by tattoo ink.
“It’s not the pain that stops me from getting one”. I have a high tolerance for pain. Once when I was mountain biking I hit a rock and flipped the bike. I ended up landing and breaking my arm and leg. The paramedics schoked by how little refused to give me any painkillers on the scene because they were concerned that I may have had some kind of drug in my system already. I didn’t, at least not that time,

Don't ask me what that last sentence is supposed to mean.