(Walking four dogs three times a day when you live on the second floor is harder than holding in your gas after a trip to Taco Bell.)
Because I just returned from Paris, and because I signed a lease that required a sixteen hundred dollar deposit, it's safe to say my money well has run dry times a thousand, and my formerly fabulous self has been reduced to a life of TV dinners and cheesy romance novels. I was bored to bloody tears as I stalked myself online yesterday and changed my banner for the hundredth time when I ran into my traffic sources. Real people actually searched for the following and found my blog, much to their disappointment I'm sure.
After flushing my confusion down with a glass of pinot, I decided I wanted Chinese. I ordered chicken lo-mein and egg rolls from "Mr. Lee" and thirty minutes later it arrived. I don't know if it's because it didn't come from a box or I was beyond ravenous, but Mr. Lee can come over and cook for me anytime (delicioso!). I polished off my noodles in ten minutes and excitedly opened my fortune cookie. Its message was precisely the subject of this blog post.
Seriously. It couldn't have been any of the following?
No. This cookie was mocking the very essence of my present existence.
Maybe next time you'll live on the moon, loser. In the meantime there's no hope for you so just hang yourself and call it a day.
I promptly ripped my fortune in half and flushed it down the toilet, sitting down with my glass half full (of pinot) and turning on the television.
Fuck you, fortune cookie. Fuck you.