Honey, I'm not a genie I'm a physic! YEAH. YEAH. Well, you can't just burst into my studio apartment, fiddle with my candles and demand a Chevy Impala. Doesn't work like that. Let me explain something to you: You're done growing. Five foot three until you die, my friend. Baby, I'm not yelling at you. I just resent the fact that you think I'm some kind of Santa Clause here to grant every wish on your list. Oh-hey-oh! A hot girlfriend? Not with those mutton chops, Wolverine. But seriously, do you want your fortune told or are you just going to stare at the floor. You guess? Well I guess you better pay me my money then. Alright now, let me see that palm. I told you, I'm not that kind of physic! If you want a lot of money so fucking bad then get a job you little beatnik. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Your energy is stressing me out. You're a deep purple and I'm a muted yellow. We clash. That's just how it is. My nerves are rattling too because I haven't had a cigarette in forty eight hours and I can't find my god damn 'sounds of the ocean' CD. OK, let's try this again. Your plump ring finger suggests that you're going to grow old alone. Oh, but the crevice between your thumb and pointer finger suggests that you will inherit riches beyond you wildest imagination! You will flaunt your new found wealth with fur coats, alligator boots and large drinking chalices. What do you mean that doesn't sound like you? Money changes people you know. Look kid, I'm not going to argue with you. Our session is over. Yeah. Here, take as many candles as you want. Vanilla smells awful anyway. You don't have any bus fare?! Oh for Pete's sake! Here's your five dollars back, you little waste of time.
Inspired by: Skee-lo - "I Wish"
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