YOU'RE NOT PSYCHIC DAY!

(I DECLARE TODAY TO BE GIRLS ARE PRETTY TRIBUTE DAY)

Every day for the past month (ever since you moved to Vegas) you've been coming into the pawn shop and demanding to see the wedding bands that desperate husbands and wives have traded for cold, hard cash. "Ernesto," you say (you've come to know the proprietor of this particular pawn shop), "show me the latest." Ernesto will comply with the same queasy smile he gave you the first time you asked, presenting you with a small velvet-lined display box cradling an assortment of winking gold rings.

You'll run the tips of your fingers over the shiny, cold metal and feel nothing. You've been secretly hoping all your life that you possessed some latent, inbuilt psychic talent that will come alive in a sudden burst of otherworldly, foreboding hallucination the moment you touch the treasured heirloom of a doomed person, but so far there's been zilch. It's been that way for twenty-nine days now, more if you count the preceding forty-three years of your life. It's time to admit it: You're not psychic. This time, as a change of pace, buy a hatchet from Ernesto and bury it in the head of the first tall person you see. You still won't be psychic, but at least now you'll be interesting.

Happy You're Not Psychic Day!