Telepathic Trespassing

Last updated 07/04/2026

After picking up my car from a tire alignment, I realized that all the stress of planning a major move had knocked my chakras out of alignment too.

Clearly, I needed a chakra alignment.

So I stopped at a new acupuncture and massage place on my way home.

A very small woman greeted me and asked how I wanted to be massaged.

“Hands, knees, elbows, or feet?” she asked. “Or would you rather spin the wheel and take your chances?”

So I gambled.

The wheel landed on knees.

Without introducing herself or explaining what was about to happen, the masseuse climbed onto the table like a ninja, positioned herself over my legs, and began massaging them with her knees.

Apparently, the technique was reserved exclusively for Westerners.

It had been completely banned in its country of origin.

She placed several hot stones along my back, then returned shortly afterward to remove them.

As she lifted them one by one, she told me the acupuncturist was very short and would be with me shortly.

That was when I heard what sounded like a small stool being dragged across the floor.

Then I heard his voice.

Mr. Porcupine!

He pointed the flashlight on his phone directly at my face. The room was pitch-black.

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he said. “I’m in a court-ordered rehabilitation program.”

“So this is part of your rehabilitation?”

“I’m supposed to learn an honest profession and become another productive slave of the system. I was released from prison a few months ago after serving time for practicing medicine without a license.”

“I just received my certification,” he said, pulling a sheet of paper from inside his shredded white coat. “I printed it on my friend’s home printer.”

He handed it to me.

“It’s still warm.”

The certificate was from the Believe It or Not Shamanic School.

He had graduated with honors.

I turned it over.

His acupuncture license was printed on the back.

“You put both credentials on the same sheet of paper?”

“It saves trees and space in my wallet.”

“Do you really have to wear that white coat? Your quills have completely shredded the back.”

“I want people to take me seriously.” He adjusted what remained of the collar. “And white looks good on me.”

He pulled out his clipboard.

“Anyway, what brings you here?”

“I have this being stuck in my mind like that meow-meow song.”

“Like the song that never ends?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this mysterious being.”

“Where do I begin?”

“Did you exchange bodily fluids when you met him?”

“No!”

Mr. Porcupine looked surprised.

“You don’t smooch on the first date?”

“It wasn’t a date, and that is none of your business.”

“I’m trying to gather all the relevant details,” he said as he removed the hot stones from the warmer and poured a handful of popcorn kernels inside.

“Are you making popcorn?”

“I get the feeling this is going to be an interesting story.”

I continued with my story.

“Right after I met him, I felt all the energy drain out of me. I became spiritually weak. At first, I assumed I was simply exhausted from traveling.

“But a few weeks later, the thoughts intensified. Eventually, he began entering my dreams.

“He would flash signs at me so quickly that I couldn’t read what he was trying to say. So I started entering his dreams because I wanted to find out.”

Mr. Porcupine started typing on his phone while talking to me.

“It sounds to me like this has developed into a serious case of telepathy trespassing.”

“He entered my dreams first.” I said.

“That doesn’t give you permission to enter his.”

“I was investigating.”

“You were trespassing.”

“You see, humans are like computers. When two people stare meaningfully into each other’s eyes, they can begin transferring files.”

“Files?”

“Thoughts, bucket lists, passwords, dreams, emotional viruses. That sort of thing.”

“So he downloaded himself into my mind?”

“Possibly. Or you accidentally left your spiritual Bluetooth turned on.”

“Tell me, did you accept any food or drinks from him?”

“No.”

I paused.

“Wait. I did. He gave me a bottle of water, and I drank it.”

Mr. Porcupine lowered his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to accept drinks from strangers?”

“She told me not to accept candy from strangers. She never mentioned anything about drinks.”

“What he gave you was not water. It was a love potion, and the seal only made it more potent.”

“At first, I thought distance would dilute the thoughts, but it only made them stronger.

“Give me his ZIP code.”

I gave it to him.

Mr. Porcupine opened Google Maps on his phone and studied the distance.

“Aha!”

“What?”

“You’re still much too close. You’re only a few hours apart by plane.”

“That is not close.”

“To heartbreak, it is. You may as well live down the street from him and see him every day.”

“My body can still detect him?”

“Of course. That is why the potion hasn’t cleared from your system.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Move to China.”

“China?”

“Within a week, he’ll be completely out of your system. You’ll be so busy trying to find your way around that there won’t be a single ounce of space left in your brain for him to occupy.”

He continued the treatment and informed me that he could perform a shamanic exorcism to temporarily evict him from my mind.

He pulled out a baby rattle, and began reciting what sounded like Hollywood Latin… the kind supernatural movies use whenever they want the audience to know that something demonic and poorly translated is happening.

Whatever Mr. Porcupine was saying was badly mispronounced. He was reading it directly from his phone.

He kept dragging the little stool around the massage table so he could reach me, shaking the baby rattle over every part of my body.

He finally stopped the ridiculous chanting and informed me that the treatment was only a temporary fix.

“If you want him completely flushed out of your system,” he said, “You’re going to have to flush the old blood out of your system three times a week,” he said. “I know a place that can help.”

“What place?”

“Dracula’s Mobile Blood Donation Center.”

“I know exactly where it is,” I said. “I was coerced into donating blood there once during a hospital stay.”

A few minutes later, he gathered his things and left the room.

“Mr. Porcupine!” I shouted. “Mr. Porcupine! Mr. Porcupine!”

He froze in the hallway.

It worked, he thought. I redirected the obsession toward myself.

He straightened the shredded remains of his white coat.

I have to tell her the truth. She deserves to know where she stands and what she’s up against.

Then he walked back into the room.

“I need to be honest with you,” he said. “I’m married. Shotgun wedding. Baby porcupine on the way.”

“Oh, Mr. Porcupine,” I said. “You have no idea how long I’ve prayed for a one-foot creature capable of shredding me into pieces and with baggage on top of it. At last, God or the demons have heard me.”

He lowered his eyes modestly.

“Mr. Porcupine, you’re a CERTIFIED IDIOT! You left one of your quills in my back, and I nearly impaled myself when I rolled over.”

“Oh.”

He reached over and pulled it out.

“I’m so sorry. I got distracted.”

“By what?”

“Calculating how much I was going to bill your insurance for all the unnecessary treatments I performed during this session.”

I suppose it was true what they said.

A porcupine never changes its quills.