My problem isn’t so much that I think to much, but that I think too *hard*. You know the type–people that are lost in concentration over the smallest decisions, grappling with what kind of coffee to order like the fate of the free world hangs in the balance.

Though I will allow that the fact I have massive latent psychic potential does complicate things a dash.

After what happened to Uncle Grey in the Great Meltdown of ’02, which could be felt by psi-actives as far away as Irkutsk and leveled an area of the Montana Badlands the size of Rhode Island, I’ve been on a strict regiment of zen and GesteCo Psi-Suppresitol. But it doesn’t always work when I’m a thinky mood.

Like the time I was trying to decide between cheese and pepperoni at Herculaneum Pizzeria and the gas tanks of six parked cars exploded simultaneously.

Or the time I was decided whether to reply to *mastrlvr1066* on Cupyd’s Arrow dot com and caused a waterspout in my complex’s pool.

Or the time I was taking the GRE and caused eighteen nosebleeds and a six-week coma.

But they all pale in comparison to the time Jimmy Drummond asked me upstairs at Phi Qoppa Beta.

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