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Thread: Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS page 51

  1. #501
    bucharu's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by sixpack-rc View Post
    When reading your blog I always wonder what your name for ME might be on here.



    I imagine it will be something heroic like "Fights Evildoers" but in reality it would probably be "Fried Twinkie" or "Ostrich Butt Head".

    ~rc
    Wanders off to the iTunes Store - RIP, Steve - to find the "Gay Panda FABULOUS Name Generator" app...
    Primal: going sane.
    "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results."
    - Rita Mae Brown, though frequently attributed to Albert Einstein, Mark Twain, or Benjamin Franklin...

  2. #502
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    You two are funny.

    DAY TWELVE OF GAY PANDA'S 30-DAY CHALLENGE

    A: Read. Four pages, and one was mostly pictures. Thank you, Valhalla. CHECK.

    B: Exercise. My neck didn't feel steady enough, so I did some light yard work and left it at that. CHECK.

    C: Agents. I am printed and up-to-date on this now, one for each week. CHECK.

    D: Floss. Enjoying my night off.

  3. #503
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    PART ONE: It’s going to be one of Those Days.

    Benign Poltergeist said something so vile, so heinous, and so reprehensible about Primal Coach Kitty’s mother that Gay Panda was awoken at 1:42 to a glass-shattering war cry of utter scandal and outrage. Perhaps you heard it. This was followed by a second war cry at 1:43, and the kitty was unceremoniously deposited outside to watch for pterodactyls. Benign Poltergeist sulked to have lost its easiest target for emotional manipulation, and busied itself quietly for the rest of the night by hiding my ear bud and tracking dirt around the hardwood floor that I just vacuumed.

    Gay Panda returned to sleep and had a long nightmare. I was trapped in a creepy old warehouse and being pursued by a homicidal beach ball. Yes, you read that right. I was running in slow motion, the way one does in dreams, with a beach ball bouncing furiously after me with gory intentions. But how was a beach ball going to kill me? Bounce me to death? This beats my all-time Stupid Nightmare of 1999, in which I was being chased by a homicidal seven-foot tall bean-and-cheese burrito. It sprinted after me on tiny white legs and waved its tiny white arms as I fled in terror through the sunlit but empty streets of a city. The dream ended with my death, when the burrito leaped into the air and landed on me, squashing me flat.

    I woke early and let a very indignant kitty back in. Benign Poltergeist picked up right where it had left off and the war cries resumed. I cleaned the kitchen and did some laundry while she bellowed and ran around, and now, at a quarter to eight with me tired but fully awake from the ruckus, she has fallen fully asleep. I love my kitty almost as much as I love my laptop, but New York City ASPCA, if you would like to speed the removal process, I am willing to appear on Animal Precinct looking vaguely like a tick. I’ll be home all day.

    Since it’s going to be one of Those Days where I am overtired and grouchy and my neck is tweaking, and the scale will show that two nights ago I dared to eat three fingerling potatoes, you are going to get another story. If you visit my journal for primal tips, skip today. Before I get back to work on my series, I’m going to write about the invitation I just received in the mail pleading with me to come back to Psychic School.

    Four years ago, a wonderful but gullible friend of mine presented a two-for-one coupon that she had for a psychic reading. It was being held at Psychic School, which is clearly not its real name so that I don’t get sued. Psychics seem to be drawn to the West Coast where I live. Astrologers, palm and Tarot readers, crystal gazers, dream interpreters, ESP masters, past life specialists, and karma cleansers surround my magical bamboo forest. I can’t drive in any direction with seeing a giant neon hand in a window or a billboard promising that my answers lie in the stars. Though Gay Panda wants desperately to believe in magic, I do not frequent these places. My love of magic is beaten by my practicality and sense of thrift. Honestly, if Miss Zora were psychic, why the hell is she stuck doing thirty-dollar readings for lonely singles and crashed careerists? Hit the stock market, dumbass!

    The website for Psychic School is plastered with pictures of Healing Energy Hands hovering over heads, people laughing and meditating and resting in grass, fire bursting from palms, and oddly, a picture of a tennis shoe next to a water bottle. That last picture appears on two different pages on the site, and I can’t figure out what it signifies. If you have a hypothesis, let Gay Panda know. It puzzles me.

  4. #504
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    I am very behind in my gay panda reading..hope all is going well for you!

  5. #505
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    Quote Originally Posted by anjelevil View Post
    I am very behind in my gay panda reading..hope all is going well for you!
    ANJELEVIL!!!! I missed you! Instead of doing my work today, I'm writing a journal entry and pretending that I can IF forever so that I don't have to wash any more dishes. How are you doing?

  6. #506
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    PART TWO: The school’s motto is that the air around you is full of energy and Beings of Light, which distresses me to consider. I don’t want to think that ghosts are hovering about when I’m in the can. As a cub, I truly feared that someone would stop time while I was sitting on the toilet, and I would be trapped there frozen forever. How embarrassing. From ages nine to thirteen, I used the facilities as quickly as I could, just in case someone was trying to stop time. One sticky Panda Sibling idiotically took forever in there, but I never explained the danger to him. We lived in a state of constant feud, and if he got trapped on the toilet for all of eternity, that was fine with me.

    This school offers workshops and classes and retreats for people paying thousands of dollars to become clairvoyant. It also sports readings for the general public, hoping to garner new students from impressed clients. My friend was a frequent visitor to their Reading Nights, and nothing I ever said convinced her that these people weren’t psychic.
    “But they know that I’m having problems with my ex-husband!” she cried. “I didn’t say that!”
    “You go in there and say you have questions about the relationship with your ex!” I cried right back. “Why would you have questions if you were happy? It’s not psychic intuition for me to suggest that you are having problems in this relationship then. It’s common sense.”
    “Gay Panda, they are really, really psychic there! I swear. I have a coupon and you’re going.”

    After an argument, which I lost since she is a bossy German Alpha and I’m a French Beta peacemaker, I found myself in her car driving to the school for a Reading Night. Maybe they were really, really psychic there, I allowed myself to hope. But I knew in my heart that this was not going to be the night in which I broke my streak of Magical Fail. Nothing was going to happen. And oh, I was right on one count, and oh, I was wrong on the other.

    The school was in a downtown Victorian home, two stories and otherwise non-descript in the dark. We went in the back and were pointed down a hall to a room in the front. Once there, a grumpy woman who looked like a kindergarten teacher at the end of her rope put a finger to her lips and shushed us though we hadn’t been talking. In the front room was a circle of chairs and sofas, filled with people meditating while others in the center performed Healing Energy Hands on someone’s past-life headache. I fought back a mad urge to laugh at the swooping hands and fluttering fingers dispersing negative energy, and took my seat on a sofa while the kindergarten teacher glared at me.

    Once the past-life headache had been eradicated by the power of Healing Energy Hands, we were allowed to speak. Most people didn’t, floating blearily out the door. Five of us remained for readings. This was not going to be the typical reading, we were told. Each of us was to be given three psychics, as combining powers created more accuracy. My friend almost danced away with her trio to one of the other rooms. One by one, the others were called away. Then I sat there alone until the kindergarten teacher asked huffily what I was doing. I explained and she stormed off to find more psychics.

  7. #507
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    PART THREE: Minutes later, a middle-aged man entered the room. He was the image of a forgetful professor in a rumpled brown suit, a faraway look in his light blue eyes behind glasses. On the breast of his jacket was a nametag that read Hello! My name is Tim Tim. I stared. The first Tim was written in neat block with black pen. The second Tim was wobbly, written in pink and blue crayon with a heart above the ‘I’. A green butterfly pooping little clouds darted away from the ‘M’ to the corner of the nametag. I understood after reflection that his name was not, in fact, Tim Tim. It was just Tim. The first Tim had been written by the man in front of me, and the second Tim was written by his inner child. I bit down hard on my lip to keep it together. Frankly, kittens, this world is a hard place to vacation for a lifetime. If someone can swing it better merely by accessing his inner child, then I shouldn’t laugh. But dear Valhalla, I almost did.

    Tim Tim pulled two chairs to the sofa, and took the one closest to me. A woman floated into the room. She wore diaphanous clothing and had a giant mass of coarse black hair, which stuck out in every direction like she had been recently electrocuted. Taking the second chair, she smiled vaguely in my general direction. Both were students at the school honing their clairvoyance on Reading Nights. Then the kindergarten teacher bustled in and snapped, “Did you get out the crayons?”

    Before anyone could answer, and while I sat there worried that I was going to be asked to color, she crossed the room angrily and threw open the doors to a closet. Within were stacks of baskets filled with crayons. Plucking one out, she stomped across the room again and set it down on a podium. Then she withdrew a white pamphlet and waited expectantly. Tim Tim and Electric Shock turned to me and closed their eyes. I squirmed. A minute passed. Another. Then Electric Shock’s voice washed around us faintly. “The first level of Gay Panda’s aura is blue.” The kindergarten teacher dove into the crayon basket for the matching color and began to draw furiously on the pamphlet.

    Tim Tim sighed, his eyes still closed. “The second level of Gay Panda’s aura is earth brown.”
    “Oh, yes, it’s beautiful,” agreed Electric Shock. The kindergarten teacher rustled sharply through the basket as I thought you owe me, German Alpha Friend. You owe me BIG.
    “And the third?” the kindergarten teacher snapped. That one was delicate pink. There was no Delicate Pink in the crayon basket, so she went with Cotton Candy Pink. And on it went, through all seven levels of my aura. I didn’t know that I had so many, and wondered if this was more or less than other people, and whether I should be proud or worried.

    It is very strange to sit on a sofa with two people facing you, their eyes kept closed as they speak about the seven levels of your aura and your spirit guides while a third person colors them bad-temperedly in the background. People went by now and then in the hall, and though they were quiet, the kindergarten teacher glared and shushed them. Gay Panda, for those of you who are interested, has two spirit guides. Tim Tim saw a bright light following me wherever I go, and Electric Shock exhaled in pleasure to see a Fuzzy Yellow Thing living on my shoulder. I did not know what to make of this, and smiled politely until I remembered that their eyes were closed.

    Then they asked what had brought me to Psychic School. Wanting to prove that they were not psychic, I said vaguely, “Oh, what direction my career should take.”
    “Ah,” Tim Tim said. “A seeker.”
    “We should look at Gay Panda’s past lives,” suggested Electric Shock in a whisper. I dug my nails into my jeans as silence descended upon the room again. In time, Electric Shock revealed that she was seeing a lot of white. It was snow. “You love skiing in this life. That’s a hold-over from the last one I’m seeing.”
    “I’ve actually never been skiing,” I confessed.
    “You’re picking up on someone else’s energy!” the kindergarten teacher scolded. “Disperse it!”
    Last edited by Gay Panda; 10-13-2011 at 11:31 AM.

  8. #508
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    PART FOUR: For the next three minutes, Tim Tim and Electric Shock performed Healing Energy Hands on themselves and shook off the intruder. They stopped trying to peep on my past lives and returned to the matter at hand: my career. The psychics ruminated on colors, vibrant colors, greens and browns everywhere, and concluded that I love nature. Happily, Electric Shock whispered, “You’re such an environmentalist. Oh! Look at all this green! You love being outside.”
    I told the truth. “My idea of being in nature is getting the mail. I’m an indoors panda.”
    “You’re picking up on someone else’s energy AGAIN!” the kindergarten teacher chastised. So the long process of Healing Energy Hands began a second time, and I wondered if I had gotten the Remedial Psychics in this school. I wanted this to be over so I could yell at German Alpha for giving her hard-earned money to this stupid place.

    My reading went on for an hour. If you are wondering how it is that I can recall so well what was said, that is because they taped it. Bless their Muggle hearts, Tim Tim and Electric Shock worked their remedial psychic tails off, granting me glorious careers in art (I never got past stick people) and a variety of other subjects in which I have no interest or aptitude. My chakras were assigned numbers at random, one being 47 and needing work, another being 88 and fantastic. By the end I was just bored and wanting dinner, and the kindergarten teacher was drawing roses on my aura pamphlet to represent the Magical Parts of Me. I received the pamphlet to keep for myself, along with the audio-cassette, and had a mailing list thrust at me. I signed it under the stern eye of the kindergarten teacher. I would have signed over my soul just to leave.

    German Alpha left her reading thrilled at how accurate it had been, wanting to have readings more often since they were cheaper and more helpful than a therapist. I explained my bad experience and she encouraged me to come back and get a different psychic trio, and has repeated this encouragement over the years since. But I’ve never gone back, and I get monthly mailings asking me if I want to be clairvoyant for only three grand. I should take myself off the list, but they should know psychically that I want to be taken off the list. Every month that they mail me anyway, I prove that they are not psychic. This pleases me. So I let it continue.

    Dumplings, I’ve now spent three hours writing about Tim Tim when I have ten other things that I should have been doing in that time, and the guilt is getting to me. So I leave you with a wave of Healing Energy Hands, and will eat bacon while watching Glee for one last stab at procrastination before I get to work.
    Last edited by Gay Panda; 10-13-2011 at 11:41 AM.

  9. #509
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    namelesswonder is online now Moderator
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    HAHAHAHA oh man. That was wonderful. I'm sorry for the pain you suffered through to tell such a marvelous tale =P
    Journal on depression/anxiety
    Currently trying to figure out WTF to eat (for IBS-C).

  10. #510
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    Quote Originally Posted by namelesswonder View Post
    HAHAHAHA oh man. That was wonderful. I'm sorry for the pain you suffered through to tell such a marvelous tale =P
    namelesswonder, your heart chakra is 38. This is fantastic! Your spirit guide is a dandelion floret on the tip of your nose, and the seven levels of your aura are colored like rainbow sherbet.

    It was agony. Glad you enjoyed my pain!

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