When it comes to things paranormal, supernatural or that fall into the general category of “too woo woo” (a category that captures magic crystals, magnets, or lighting sage bundles in a cleansing ritual) I’m a huge cynic. Sure, I watch my “Ghost Hunters’, but they debunk and nothing makes me happier than when they show the owners of the “haunted” house how if you just open this door and hop on the middle board the other door will always open without fail. On the other hand, when they can’t explain how the door opens or why the infrared picked up something moving towards them that wasn’t there, then I get a chill. Still, I live in the realm of the explainable with very few exceptions. The kind of person who could argue that the sun didn’t come up if I didn’t see it. Sure, it “likely” came up based on how the universe works, but how do you know for certain?

Still, I’ve had my share of Ouija boards. (I’m supposed to meet a guy named Ben Fitzpatrick in the library and we’re going to be married according to the little magic Matel board as predicted in 1983. I hope you all can make it to the ceremony.) I have a deck of Tarot cards, wrapped in silk, only touched by me and kept in a safe place. They’re so safe, I couldn’t tell you where they were at the moment. I burned an elective in college on an anthropology course titled “Magic, Witchcraft and Religion”. I’ve put prayers in the stump at the Voodoo museum and stuffed pennies in Marie Laveau’s mausoleum for luck. I also have a voodoo doll straight from New Orleans who has been stabbed many times while I rubbed the ju-ju beads and put my thoughts in the gris-gris bag. Heck, I can even tell you a bit about the Lao, Papa Legba, Oshun and Oya if pressed. In that same breath I could tell you about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, too.

I “want” to believe, but my brain gets in the way and the only time I do believe in things that go bump in the night that aren’t serial killers named Julie is in that fog I wake up in at 2am while stumbling into the bathroom. I have a terrific imagination and ability to scare myself senseless.

The other night Jay and I were talking about curses. Sure, I believe curses work if the person cursed truly believes they are cursed, but then it’s really their mind that’s cursing them not some hooey involving black candles, rooster’s blood and an egg. Jay asked me how I knew they didn’t work. “Trust me, I try to curse people all the time and nothing ever comes of it.” Proof positive cursing doesn’t work! Of course, then I realized I was being a little ugly by fessing up and added, “the only thing I try to curse people with is self-awareness. I want people to become more self-aware of the person they actually are.” Jay basically said, “what if they did and they just don’t care.” SHOOT! I didn’t account for that. My curses might have been working this entire time and it just figures THOSE people wouldn’t care – just like them. Cursing is like those twisted little genies in the lamp – sure, you get your three wishes, but if you’re not very specific, the stories show the wishes always go awry.

Now it’s back to the old drawing board. I have to find the voodoo doll and start the project anew. See, you approach it like any good scientific theory. You hypothesize, test and wait for the results. I’m still certain it won’t work, but if you all wouldn’t mind, I’d like some hair clippings (yours) and maybe some fingernail clippings (also yours) – make sure to clean before you clip. I’m not growing things in a petri dish thanks to your poor hygiene; I’m trying to curse you. In a few months, if you feel more self-aware of whatever it is in your personality that might be irritating me then please take steps to correct it. Blowing it off is not the answer and it won’t go towards changing my beliefs on any of this stuff. Your participation is much appreciated. I’m looking forward to helping you become a better person.

NOTE: People who do not participate in the forums will be cursed with or without clippings. I’m sure I have something personal of yours at my house. Don’t test the Lao.