here's proof that i'm getting old. a birthday is the perfect excuse to scratch something off of my 101 in 1001 list (040 have my palm read in a psychic's parlor), what with the beginning of my saturn return* - i'm sure a palmister would have lots of exciting things to say about the death of youth (or, you know, a long voyage i'll take over the sea). i was thinking along those lines on a walk around the block when i turned the corner and saw this:

the midtown psychic

the young, interesting me would have gone for it, but the new, responsible me is in the middle of closing an issue of the ladymag and can't dematerialize for more than five minutes at a stretch. oh, fun. it was nice to know you.

*you can take the girl out of the san francisco hippie shit, but you can't take the san francisco hippie shit out of the girl.

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