Non-fortune fortunes are ushering in the end times.

When the sesame chicken is finished and all that is left in the Styrofoam® container are those superfluous hunks of broccoli that no short-order cook actually intended for you to eat, the inevitable moment of closure awaits. Yes, fortune cookies aren't very tasty. And no, they're not native to China. But even if you don't eat the cookie - an innovative blending of stale and bland - you must crack it open to discover what the future holds...in bed. That said, nothing irritates me more (gross hyperbole) than finding out that my fortune is not a fortune at all but some ridiculous platitude or nonsensical sentence fragment. "A smile is like the flower in the midst of rocky soil." "Money is nice to have when you need it." "Love is good. Have fun day." I want to know if great financial success awaits me, if an old flame will re-enter my life (assuming I had old flames), or if I should be wary of street vendors who conspire to bring about my death. Non-fortune fortunes are just as awful as the edible packages in which they arrive. I want to shoot the message, the messenger, the minimum-wage worker folding the cookie around the little slip, the devil soul who generated the fortune-less muck, and your mother.

However, today at the Cuban-Chinese restaurant on E 60th God presented me with the first non-fortune fortune that I actually enjoyed:
What a wonderful read - a little disconcerting and a nice twist in the humdrum, everyday, slow shuffle off to death. Plus, it's bookended with smiley faces! But what secret is not-so-secret? Do all of you already know how self-conscious I am of what I've been able to retain from my graduate studies and how I fear someone asking me to elaborate on any number of philosophers? Don't tell me you're privy to the inexplicable sensation I have while standing in the shower and I see myself as a figure in a Peter Paul Rubens painting, composed of fleshy masses, rolling muscles, proportions heavy and protruding - and relish it. Maybe you've long suspected that I delete the emails I receive from Amnesty International without reading them. Or you find pleasure in the sad fact that I really can't do much more than the basics on my brand-new, pretty expensive, wondrously beautiful iMac. Oh, and I'd be more than a little embarrassed if you've been talking amongst yourselves for a while now about how, had the opportunity presented itself, I would've made out with a few undergrad and grad professors just to be exempted from the final paper assignment. (Don't worry, Adam. This doesn't include you. You never gave long writing assignments anyway.)

Now this next part is dangerous and possibly masochistic. I'm asking you, dear readers, to drop off your own suggestion. Don't be afraid/timid/obvious. We're all adults here - excluding for now the substantial number of hits I receive from tweens (2BZ4UQT! LOL). If you have an idea, hand it over. Remember, I can always delete, so you're not being given as much power as you may think. And I promise that the next post will not be focused so overtly on myself, and I will not ask you to spend any more precious time thinking about me than you're already liable to do. Girl Scouts' pinky swear. Honest.

P.S. My lucky lotto numbers are: 40 49 42 47 29 44.