|A bird in the hand makes it awfully hard to blow your nose.|
I would say so. But why—why would I?
What I want to know is what I do not know. After-dinner oracle, tell me a fortune that brings my future to me.
|You are dreaming. It is time to wake up now.|
No. That’s not the speak I expect. Crispy after-dinner treats give insight into their eater’s future, not pithy commentary. Back in the day—not all the way back to scurvy, outhouses, and pinochle either—fortune cookies told fortunes. Real tangible fortunes like Expect miracles in two weeks or A stranger will become your best friend or even You’ve got mail. Just one fortune. That’s all I ask.
|Avoid gunfire in the bathroom tonight.|
Sigh. Still, there is this subtle honey sweetness, all graham crackery and wholesome. And that tough, magically folded wheat shell. Perhaps I’ve been harsh, perhaps I’ve blamed the message carrier and not the message. Perhaps I—crunch crunch.
Cookie, you are an unfortunate fortune—but you’re a good cookie.
(Get your own fun cookie message from Miss Fortune. You should be so fortunate.)