“I see her … she’s very near,” said the psychic. Staring at the $50 bill that I had just dropped on her table, I squinted and pursed my lips. “The next girl you meet will bring you much joy.” My life had come to this, seeking the guidance of a paranormal seer. I had become the type of guy that I used to mock. I had been living in Los Angeles, the land of big pecs and washboard abs for about six months. Dating felt nearly impossible. In an effort to fully embrace the L.A. lifestyle, I joined a gym. For someone who already has body issues, the last place that I should have gone was a gym in West Hollywood. Are you a veteran of L.A.'s current dating scene? We want to publish your story Men with perfect bodies walk around the locker room in their underwear, a small towel or nothing at all, and they spend excessive amounts of time in front of the mirror oiling up before taking the “after pump” selfie. After a few months of gym-going, I became friendly with a guy who looked like a long-lost cast member of “Jersey Shore,” with bulging muscles over every inch of his body and a tan that would put “Dancing With the Stars” contestants to shame. When he learned about my dating woes, he had an unusual suggestion. “Have you considered going to a psychic?” I remained silent and hoped that if I just stood still he might walk away. More L.A. Affairs columns “Hear me out,” he said, then told me about his psychic, who, he said, had accurately predicted that he’d hear “amazing news within the next week” about a job he’d applied for. “Maybe she could help you with your dating problems. I could give you her address.” I rolled my eyes. Then I relented. What could it hurt? I kept staring at the psychic as she rambled on. Her room in Burbank looked like it could double as an altar for human sacrifices. As the hourlong session ended, the psychic pointed at me and said nothing more. She clearly sensed my skepticism and probably placed an 8,000-year hex on me. I walked to my car and was about to turn the ignition when I noticed a young woman behind the wheel of her car, frantic and audibly cursing. Though not much of a car person, I walked over and asked if she needed help. I opened the