Sitcommiest Life Ever.
So while I was walking up Park Ave, a well dressed elderly woman and her associate exit a very nice townhouse, looking quite polished and ritzy themselves to match their surroundings. The woman does a double take, walks up to me and tells me with a slight bit of astonishment that I radiate an intense psychic energy and that I have a magnificent aura. She then digs around in her Louis Vuitton bag and finds a card, which she hands to me and tells me that I must come and have a reading and that she'll do it for free, and while it may not be life changing, it will be eye opening. She also says that once I come in, she'll remember me, and that she knows that these things may not be something I believe in, but that she hopes I will stop by one day.
I thanked her, and I really had the full intention of going in for some sort of psychic reading, so I tucked the business card into the side pocket of my bag. Later, in Central Park, I stopped to give a family some directions to a museum in Spanish, (they stopped and asked me and I thought, Puedo ayudar!! and began chatting away, albeit slowly), and the business card blew away. So now I'll never know of my psychic energy and aura and such.
Le sigh.
Oh, and then in the evening, my dad beat me in a musical debate by pointing out that Freddie Mercury was Indian. This information has warped my fragile little mind.