There's This Story That I Have to Tell...

Nearly four years ago June and I, in a moment of sophomoric spontaneity, walked past a psychic's storefront on West 51st Street in Manhattan, and got out palms read. We could hardly walk past, and were giddy at the impromptu chance to look into out futures. It was eerily insightful, and what I felt at the time, half full of shit.

She told me that I should be writing more, that I should have never slowed down, should have never left California, should in fact be there still. I was alarmed, and hesitant. She laughed at me.

"You think you're changing lives right now, helping other people, but that's nothing compared to the lives that you could reach if you just wrote down what was in your head and heart, what you've seen and what you feel."

I never forgot it, every word of it, because it struck me so strange. It made sense. It scared me a little. I buried the woman's urgings down deep, and dismissed the idea. Then I watched "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" and now I understand what she meant.

What the f#$& have I been thinking? Doing? That film was the single best thing I have ever watched in my life. People have told me similar things as that woman did, in much less eery detail, of course. You people have said as much, over and over again, and I have ignored you. Perhaps even insulted you with my trepidation. I've just never before seen something so profound that I needed to find, again, whatever feeling it just inspired. Wow. Seriously, what the f#%& have I been doing?