While packing up and moving, I rediscovered a lot of jolly useless crap that I’ve hoarded, including these fortunes I saved for some reason:

Rediscovered fortune-cookie fortunes

Rediscovered fortune-cookie fortunes

Guess which one I like best (if I were to choose one to be my REAL fortune or that I actually believe in)?

Definitely not “you will have many friends when you need them”. That one gives me an anxiety attack – total fortune cookie curse. I thought they stopped making those kinds!

I like “you are the center of every group’s attention” marginally better, but again, it sounds like a curse pointing out a strong character defect. It might as well say, “you are an obnoxious narcissist and/or a buffoon.” Like, everywhere you go YOU WILL MAKE AN ASS OF YOURSELF!! Have you ever considered being seen and not heard? Okay, how about if you just take a shower next time because you smell like a stale cookie baked in a butt oven. Decorating your face with your own smegma isn’t as cool as you think it is. And for Christ’s sake, put your tits away and stop talking like a fourth grader impersonating an Asian comedian.

I do not belong to any group, I am simply an object of every group’s derision. There is “every group”, and there is me. I don’t think I have low self-esteem, I truly think that’s all implied by the wording of the fortune.

“Put the data you have uncovered to beneficial use” resonates with me. STRONGLY. Like a whisper of truth from the great computer in the sky, urging me along to fulfill my virtual destiny on the gameboard of “life”. I can feel proud of being chosen to uncover data and succeeding in dusting off this wisdom — these necessary components of information —  and look forward to more being revealed as I take the Next Logical Steps in applying all of it. My future is certain, but I do not know what it is . . . yet. But everything will most certainly fall into place and I will either end world hunger or win a lifetime supply of personal awesome, which I may build in the form of a vault filled with cakesters, lost Patricia Highsmith novels (imagined and written by moi, of course), benzos, and the interchangeable body parts of my robot sex drone*, “Vector” (affectionately named after my favorite affordable fountain pen by Parker, which I will have cached by the thousand).

Despite the allure of that fortune, I’m fated to accept “you have remarkable power which you are not using” as the true script written exactly for me. I could look at it as the forty-year-old’s new age version of all of my report cards stating over and over again that I fail to work up to my full potential, like the punch in the gut every time a family member on Intervention tells the addict, “you could be so much more . . . will you please take this precious opportunity today to be the Person You Are Meant to Be?” I would be like, “why do you think I take drugs in the first place?? Too! Much! PRESSURE!!

But I don’t know . . . there really is something magical about that little slip of paper saying it like a promise from the universe instead of a disappointed father to his teacher-turned-whore daughter. So even though I threw away the fortunes, I’m going to try to use that one as an affirmation, and every time I say “I have remarkable power which I am not using” I’m going to feel a mountain of sparkling gold coin growing under my feet, strong and heavy, feeling like a reserve of money in the bank that I may withdraw at any time. I snap my fingers then open them a quarter of an inch, and coin flies up in between them! I snap my fingers on my other hand and open them again and a cakester appears in my fist! I tap my tall shiny boot on my platform of tinkling, clanging gold and a platinum-furred gopher appears in my arms!

Then I start the engine on my golden mountain of reserved power and fly across the world as though on a fertilizing-lawnmower hovercraft, gilding everything with my perverse tinkling laughter, and everyone has to put on masks like when Mount St. Helens blew or run inside lest they pollute their lungs with my infectious 14 carat gold ash. Then me and my platinum gopher land at the top of an extremely soft and unbelievably tall grassy hill that we roll all the way down until we land — laughing gold even harder than before — on a pillowtop mattress that floats off into a shimmering blue lake filled with lily pads holding bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy.

*is it redundant or actually just plain inaccurate to call something both a robot and a drone?


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