Being psychic must be great, they say. You’d get all the free stock tips you could ever want, be able to dominate conversations, and rule the world. Asimov wrote about a psychic mutant so powerful that he conquered the known galaxy.

Me? I deliver pizzas to drunk Southern Michigan University students in Hopewell.

You might ask, or think about asking, why this is. I’ll know either way, but only if you’re coherent.

Peoples’ thoughts are a disorganized soup from which comprehensible words and images only haphazardly arise. So while it’s easy to see what someone’s about to say, the lead time is really short–a second or less. Most people just don’t think that far ahead, and they think so fast that it’s tough to keep up.

That’s when you aren’t getting flashes of suppressed desires and gummed-in stale jokes. So much of what I pick up is farts and sex. SO MUCH.

Add to that the fact that I have to focus and pay attention. If I think about something else, it’s like overhearing a conversation a room over. I might get the gist, I might not. But it can be exhausting and distracting picking up on the sexual fantasies of a 68-year-old in the next apartment over when you’re trying to study, believe you me.

I also don’t fit into the “Esmerelda the gypsy” mold that people expect from psychics. I am built like a linebacker, six feet tall and 200 lbs plus. Ladies aren’t meant to be that big, at least not according to clothing stores. People don’t think as much when you intimidate them, and their thoughts often turn to critiquing my appearance as a Bride of Frankenstein.

Which leads me to Papa Przewalski’s Pizza. It offers three things that are extremely valuable to a psychic: flexible hours, free food, and long stretches where I can plug my headphones in and blast other peoples’ thoughts out of my head with heavy metal music.

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