There are many things I’ve done in my life that I am not proud of. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve misled boyfriends regarding the extent of my interest in jazz-fusion music. But I am perhaps least proud of a phase I had in my early twenties, when I became hooked on storefront psychics. Alone or with similarly miserable girlfriends, I walked into their offices—neon sign, red flocked velvet wallpaper, almost always located within stumbling distance…