Spanish Inquisition

Like most people who grew up on an unhealthy dose of science fiction growing up I am secretly convinced that I have telekinesis. Powers like this generally manifest themselves during menstruation in the showers after gym class but alas I am a late bloomer and my psychic abilities still remain dormant, no matter how often I menstruate. And yet, to this day I believe. I know that all I have to do is concentrate hard enough on an object and one day I will make it levitate. And when I do events will spiral way out of control and end in a night of being drenched in pig's blood and a prom school massacre.

The first step though, is to levitate small things. A pencil, flames on a candle, changing traffic lights from red to green- something of that nature. I look for an object nearby and spot a salt shaker. OK salt shaker...let's tango. I narrow my eyes and feel my mental tentacles wrap around the object. Now....must....move....salt shaker....
One minute.....
two minutes....
A bead of sweat appears on my brow.
I can....I can feel it....almost.......

' What are you doing?'

Kitie? When did she enter the room? Damn. Must...not...let her...distract me. I'm so close to....

'Are you trying to lift objects with your mind again?'

Aaaak. She's breaking my concentration! My mental tentacles are retracting...going back into my head...

'How old are you? Can't you get some other hobbies? Normal hobbies like everyone else?'
'What would you know about my hobbies?' I snap, frustrated at my lack of success.
'You collect comics, criticise films you've never even seen, spend hours looking for new Chuck Norris facts on the Internet and masturbate to pictures of female inmates.' she replies without hesitation. Her eyes then lock on to mine, homing missiles that have found their target. 'What are my hobbies?'

Um....er....

'W...w..well,' I stammer,'..the...the thing about that is....'
'Name one. That's all I ask.'

Think think think think think think think think.

'OK then. If you can't tell me a single hobby that I have how about you tell me what my favourite colour is.'
'All of them?' I reply weakly.
She rolls her eyes. 'In all the time that we were dating how come you never pay attention to a single thing that I do? I'll bet you don't even know what my favourite TV show is.'
'That's a bet I wouldn't want to take.'
'What's my favourite food?'

A grey slab of nothing.

'Carrot cake?'
'How is it that Jesse has been going out with me for a few weeks and he knows all these things about me and you don't know squat? He's already booked a dinner reservation where they serve my favourite dish and you...you....' fury prevents her from finishing the sentence.

She turns her head from me slowly and says the chilling words that every man dreads to hear. 'What colour are my eyes?'

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

When you get asked the "eye question" and can not reply within the allotted time (about 4 seconds), your chances of leaving the room with your spleen intact is very, very minimal. It is on par with forgetting the name of your own wife at parties. This is the crucial juncture where the person asking the question will discover that every time you said you think they have beautiful eyes that you were in fact staring at their breasts instead.

Luckily for me Kittie was distracted by the salt shaker which hovered across the room.