the amazing Manion
As I’ve stated many time, perhaps needlessly, I derive no income from writing. Not because I feel I’m above receiving money for my time and that somehow accepting cash for my thoughts is somehow selling out and a true rebel wouldn’t even consider prostituting the written word for physical possessions and writing run-on sentences are really fun to read.
No, the reason is that I’m a terrible writer and if anything I should be paying you to read this.
So what do I actually do for a living? (asks nobody ever)
If I tell you you’ll have to agree not to think less of me. Which, when you hear what I do for a living, will be difficult. So let’s pretend that we’ve entered into a sacred pact and you won’t judge me.
I am a psychic.
Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t see that coming.
I clearly did.
Being psychic and all.
That’s contemptible enough on its own but wait til you hear my specialty.
I speak to the dead. Grieving people come to me and pay me to get in touch with their loved ones that have passed over to the other side.
But that’s not even the worse part. Some years ago I sat down and thought about what could be the absolute worst thing you could do for a living. What could I do, that if I was sitting down at a dinner party and was asked my occupation, would have the other members at the table immediately pelt me with bread rolls?
And still be the funniest thing in the world to me.
After I have reached their dearly departed I begin to tell the mourning family members the absolutely most horrible things I can imagine.
Don’t you DARE stop reading. It’s not a coincidence you’re here reading this right now so sit the fuck down and finish. It’s time you put some skin in the game you twisted fuck.
Do I tell the hysterical widow that I never loved her and cheated whenever I got the opportunity?
Hell no. That’s child’s play.
What would you say that could be much much worse?
That’s better. Horrible but better.
Now what about an inconsolable parent who just lost their young and only child?
Don’t you get soft on me now motherfucker. Molestation claims? That’s all you got?
I don’t believe you for a second.
Go darker. This isn’t your first rodeo so stop pretending it is. Dig deeper into that black oozing mass you call your heart.
Better. (a creepy smile creeps across my face) (that’s probably why it’s called a creepy smile) (just sayin’)
I was going to suggest a grief-stricken lover or a bereaved son or daughter but you’re already miles ahead of me aren’t you? You’re already concocting the most hideous scenarios and I couldn’t be more proud.
Now, this is not something to share with others. This will be our little secret.
Clearly I didn’t suspect that you’d be so good at this. I have nothing else to add you perverse monster.