I’ve been frustrated lately about firming up my psychic fair tours for this summer. Usually I have my itinerary by March.
This year, there has been some tampering by outside agents. Somebody has been calling the venues, posing as the promoters, and cancelling. Also cancelling advertising and accommodations.
I find myself in the unenviable position of not having a schedule. I still don’t have my surgeon’s appointment, and I have a follow-up ultrasound to schedule amongst my travels.
The lovely flat I live in has been sold. We find out June 1 if we have to move. Indications are that we will. Probably in the heat of summer, while I am travelling. If there is a psychic fair tour this year.
I suppose I should consult my trusty oracle on these matters, but really, all I want to do is curl up on the couch with a nice bottle of Chilean red wine. If I weren’t overdrawn, I would so be there.
Those twins I Photoshopped tiaras onto? Apparently, they have peckers. I can make a hundred bang-on predictions, but get one a little off, and whoosh! There goes my confidence. And? I’ve been doing this stuff for 25 years.
Ass Burger Boy missed an important appointment this morning. His anxiety is painting the atmosphere here.
Mercury is retrograde now. I guess I can just kiss that lottery win goodbye. Which is unfortunate, because I would need it for that much-coveted bottle of wine.
And when I hit publish, my site broke. I have made no changes to my CSS. Craptastic. Help yourself to the cheese I am offering with my whine.

















