Palm, tarot, aura, clairvoyant - whatever. As long as it's psychic - I'm into it. Into it deep.

 

I've been this way for most of my adult life - it all started with a $5 street-corner quickie. It seemed like so much fun - all my friends around, the bright neon sign, the musty tapestries and mysterious statuettes. Promises of guiding advice. No harm, really.

 

But somewhere along the line I became more than just a recreational user.

 

I remember the time I realized I had a real problem.

 

It was the night of my graduation from college. My friends and family had thrown a party for me at my house - a celebration with all the things any graduate would love - tasty hors d'oeuvres, cold beer, wrapped gifts. But I couldn't take it. I was so troubled by indecision about my impending real-world future and career... that I just took off. Left my own party and started cruising down the highway - looking for the sign I'd seen so many times - ah, yes. There it was. "PSYCHIC READINGS." And as those closest to me imbibed and celebrated at a party in my honor, I sat on the side of the freeway with a total stranger in a makeshift gypsy storefront.

 

Since then, I've moved on to the harder stuff. I started hanging out with friends who were into psychics, too - a wrong crowd that introduced me to the real professionals.

 

There was this woman in SoHo. She told me I'd "go on to do things that no one will believe I could do." I'd been kicking around the idea of moving to New York - I was just vising at the time - and this was all the non-specific guidance I needed to pick up and do it. My nay-saying mother was eating her words.

 

Then there was Jimmie. Jimmie who told me my choice in men was akin to "picking up hypodermic needles off the street and sticking them in" - all while my poor ex-boyfriend sat next to me and took notes. We're now back together.

 

Where's MY rehab? My Dr. Drew? My 12-step meetings? Meetings... reminds me of group readings...

 

But I know what I'm doing.

 

I'm waiting for someone to tell me exactly what I want to hear - you, Jen Howard, you will have everything you ever dreamed of. A satisfying career. Infinite happiness. Infinite love. Or at least a good date.

 

 

But no one's ever going to tell me that - no matter how many crumpled bills I can dig out of my purse. Or extract from the closest, high-fee ATM. But I keep going. And going, and going... back for more.

 

I'd managed to keep it under control for the last year - I'd been back in grad school, after all, and the tuition was eating up any extra funds I may have once had. But nbow, with graduation approaching, stress has been giving me the itch to use again. And well, what are credit cards for, anyway?

 

I got on a two-week waiting list, and pre-paid $120 via paypal before heading out to Gemma's Brooklyn apartment. I asked her so many questions about radio and journalism - the things I'd gone back to school to study - and it was painfully obvious what she had to say for me to leave satisfied. That I'd be the next Michele Norris or Terri Gross. I would even have settled for Howard Stern.

 

But she didn't tell me any of those things. She was convinced I'd be a fantastically successful motivational speaker - she said I'll have a team of PR agents and work the TV talk-show circuit.

 

But hey, If I'm going to be as good at it as she kept insisting, I could probably get my own radio show.

 

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Back Announce:

 

Jen Howard continues to make major life decisions based on the advice of complete strangers.