When there is no place safe and no safe place to put my head, you feel the world shake from the words that are said, and I’m callin’ all angels…

Last week I received a text that actually made me stop what I was doing and then run downstairs and ask Drew what the fuck it meant.

I was just about to leave for work and my phone buzzed. I assumed it was one of the girls at work texting me to ask me to pick some kind of food or beverage on my way into work. But ohhh, no. When I looked at my phone, I read the text and felt my breath catch.

Your dad is doing chemo this morning so shoot him a text if you get a chance.

Obviously, this is alarming.

1.)    Why the fuck didn’t I know Dad had cancer???

2.)    Which one of my loved ones’ phone numbers do I not already have stored in my phone?

3.)    WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T I KNOW DAD HAD CANCER?!

So, I read it over a couple times.

The text came from a phone number that wasn’t in my phonebook, nor was it one I recognized.

This fact was the only thing that kept me from flying into a full-blown meltdown. I mean, seriously,this felt way worse than the tailspin I flew into when I read on facebook that my stepbrother broke his spine. (True story! My family is soooo good at communicating bad news! Oh, and Brandon is fine- albeit he’ll be in pain and have back issues for the rest of his life- despite breaking his back, just in case you were worried.)

So, yeah, I was kinda freaking out.

I bolted down stairs and made Drew read it. I think he was only half dressed after just getting out of the shower. Although, now that I think about it, the closed door to the bathroom wouldn’t have stopped me in the least. Upon sharing this news with him, I made Drew text Dad while I tried to think of who would send me something like that.

I went through a mental checklist of people:  It couldn’t be my step-mom, I already have her number. And Brandon & Andrew- they’re both in my phone too. And for my Dad’s brothers and sisters, well, they would all have a different area code. So then my thoughts went to family friends- there was one that Drew and I agreed upon. The only thing about that was that particular family friend was stored in Drew’s phone, and the number didn’t match the one from the text message.

Finally, I texted Dad myself (as I was driving to work, trying not to freak the fuck out).

I didn’t know I was sick.

Wow, thanks for clearing that up, Dad!

Then he told me that I would know if he was in the hospital.

Good to know!

I’m glad he tried to make light of the situation. I seriously don’t know what I would have done if I would have gotten anything other than what I did receive. I mean, go ahead and call me an alarmist, but dude- that is NOT the way to find out your dad has cancer.

Besides, I should have known better. The rational part of me did know, all along, that Dad was totally fine and that this was simply a wrong number. But there’s always that tiny voice in my head that whispers all the horrible things you never even want to think about. And it never hurts to just make sure.

I never did find out whose dad was doing chemo that morning, nor did I find out from whom the text came.

For just a moment, in my head, I sent up a silent prayer for the family who was going through that, and I hoped that whoever that dad belongs to comes out of that fight on top.

Do you believe in magic!?

Magicians are Douche Bags.

With that said, I will tell you that last night I watched a hypnotist perform. And I liked it.

There were many reasons why I didn’t voluntarily attend last night’s Student Life event at my school. Those reasons include, but are not limited to, I’m not 18 years old and/or a freshman, I am not a joiner, I don’t attend social events alone (if I can help it), I skipped school-sanctioned “welcome week” activities to go get drunk with my friends when I was a freshman in college, I don’t live “on-campus,” yada, yada, yada.  I do, however, have a mother who is the VP of Student Services, which includes Student Life, so she had to make an appearance at one of her own events. I happened to be out to dinner last night with Mother and was tricked into attending this school-sanctioned community-building welcome-week activity. One Car. Tricky bitch.

When we arrived, I sensed crickets. There were, like, five people there. All employees. My mom also really enjoys introducing me to people she works with and the students she interacts with, so I get to shake a lot of hands and say “it’s great to meet you!” a million and a half times.

Michael C. Anthony. Magician/Hypnotist/Douche Bag.

So, we walked a little further into the building to another clump of people, including a couple familiar faces. This clump of people were entranced by a tall, dark-haired man wearing too-tight jeans and a ridiculous button-up shirt. He had a deck of cards in his hands and was talking with a lot of inflection in his voice. I immediately bristled. Magician, I thought. Douche Bag.

He did another trick for the group because we had walked up. He had new audience members. Why the hell not?! So, he did another card trick and I wanted to hate him, I did, but, DUDE, it was like MAGIC! I don’t understand how that works?!!?! And then he totally showed us how the trick worked. It includes fancy “shuffling” and deception I’m incapable of performing because I’m just not lame enough to “practice” card tricks. So then he fiddled around with his iPhone, showing us this app he “invented” and how it goes along with that silly card trick.

For a moment, I may have been entertained (and even impressed) but once I learned his secret, I went back to This guy’s a douche bag in too-tight jeans. And I was a little pissed, ’cause for a moment, juuuuust for a second, I believed it was real. And when it turned out to be a lie, it made me think that magic really isn’t real, which made me think that Harry Potter isn’t really real, and that made me sad.

Anyway, so then he got whisked away to “backstage” and we went and talked to more people and then sat down to watch this guy. I was skeptical. And excited. He came out a did another card trick, and I was like Mom, if this is all he’s gonna do, we need to GTFO. But thennnnn, he called like 30 kids on stage and started to “hypnotize” them. At first, it was lame and I didn’t believe it.

It wasn’t until he had these kids stretching out all over the place (pushing each other off the chairs, dropping to the floor, laying down on the floor, snuggling up to one another) that I believed he may be doing something awesome. He managed to make these kids do really crazy shit- hilarious crazy shit.  He convinced one kid his name was Cha-Cha, and when he pronounced it wrong, Cha-Cha got pissed. Cha Cha also fell in love with and danced with a broom because he told him it was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.  It was hilarious. He made another guy howl like a werewolf. He made one girl launch her body across groups of people at the word “safety” so she could pretend to be a human seatbealt. He created one awesome “dance party” and made them all think they were on the beach and it was, like, 1000 degrees. They started taking their clothes off and everything. Bahaha He convinced them that one guy’s belt was a snake. Oh em gee, I was DYING laughing.

So maybe this guy is legit. Maybe he can actually hypnotize people. I still think he’s probably a douche bag because he reminded me of  this guy:

Mystery, from VH1's tacky old show "The Pick-Up Artist" He is SICK.

I hate all of that. The show was sick. The guys on that show were sick. And the fact that women actually …. acknowledge their existence upsets me.

For one of my COM classes in college, we had to read pop culture relationship books and apply communication theories to the behaviors exhibited. I had to read THIS BOOK. I made it halfway through, and that was only because I read it in the airport, on the plane and sitting by the pool in Vegas during spring break senior year of college. I was embarrassed. It offends reason, and it certainly offended me. These men are clearly delusional and emotionally stunted. Not to mention they think women are sub-humans and completely demean them every chance they get. I assume it’s because they hate themselves so much, and they blame their mothers for not loving them, or some bullshit.

Regardless, the hypnotist I watched last night probably knows the douche bags from that VH1 show and from the book I had to read.  And his jeans were seriously wayyyy too tight. Even though he did a good job, I still stand by my original statement.

Magicians are douche bags.