Psychic Junkie Read Online Free PDF

angry and attempting to make the best of a puddle. And, I spotted with unadulterated glee, lined alongside said gorgeous tub was an array of Crabtree & Evelyn bath products. I felt tears well in my eyes as I approached the dazzling tub, running my hand down its smooth porcelain side. You and I, I thought, we will get to know each other.
    “Just down the street,” the bellboy said, “is a bath store.”
    I looked back at him. He had a young face but was cute. Very cute. No, Sarah, he’s like twelve. I quickly tipped him so he’d leave.
    Left alone with my tub, I immediately understood my new mission in life: to never leave this porcelain vessel. Sure, I may have to be on-set part of the day, doing that whole acting thing, but everything else—eating dinner, learning my lines, talking on the phone—all other activities could be conducted while I was turning into a prune and breathing in the vapors of over-priced aromatherapy products. I was so excited.
    And on top of all this, I realized the next morning, I never had to clean. As I left for the day, I glanced over my shoulder. The bed was in a severe state of disarray, not unlike the bed in The Exorcist , and yet I knew that when I returned it would have magically repaired itself and the down pillow would have somehow birthed another chocolate for my sweet-toothed, sex-deprived self.
    I was in heaven.
    But then, as tends to happen to me, I was plucked from the soft nest of my life and dropped into some thorny scorching lobby of hell.
    Enter the man. There he was—my “Danger, danger!” radar homed in on him the second I arrived on-set—an actor. The not-too-tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed actor Gina had predicted. The second I saw him I knew I was toast. For fun, let’s just call him That Dickhead Actor.
    The weeks progressed and I fell into a rather shocked state of bliss. I couldn’t believe it: He was into me. Really into me. He was dangerously handsome with long dark lashes and warm mahogany eyes that somehow always looked as though they’d found a crack into my soul that all others before had ignored. All his professing and flattering and soulful gazes made me feel as though something inside me had come unhinged and was swinging wildly in the gust of his affection. So, naturally, I dove straight in and did my usual swim in the Denial River. He’s different. He’s a working actor and in no way, shape, or form a waiter. (As if in the past the waiter part had been the problem.)
    That Dickhead Actor was promising, and thus my days were threaded with visions of our future life together. He was from New York, and in my free time, when he was working, I soaked in my tub and decorated our future brownstone. The interior, I decided, would be all dark wood and red velvet, and we’d have a big four-poster bed in which to eat chocolate-covered strawberries while lost in a tangle of our twelve-thousand-thread-count (I tend to aim high) ivory sheets. The decision, by the way, to have ivory sheets rather than white was difficult and time-consuming and did slightly interfere with my memorizing my lines—but how could I picture us in bed if I couldn’t properly see the bed?
    So impressed and convinced was I, that I actually braced myself for the scolding of the century and called Gina to share my joy. (“Why would you do that?” she wailed. “Why?!”) I tried telling her he was the man she’d predicted—she should be proud!—but she didn’t care. She informed me I was demented and begged me to date the grip, the gaffer, anyone but the actor.
    Then one day That Dickhead Actor simply changed his mind about me. Just like that he changed his mind—as if I were a dinner he’d ordered and sent back just to piss off the chef. I was so confused by the complete turnaround that for a second I actually doubted myself. Had I made up an entire romance in my head? Maybe he was ignoring me because nothing had ever happened ? He’s probably scared because I keep planting myself