I con-eff-ee-double-s, to me you are the bes’.

Friends, forgive me my wanderings, but let’s discuss cookies.

Cookies are, generally, a harmless and benevolent treat. They are sweet, devoid of nutrition, and just plain good. As I write this, I’m eating a stack of Chewy Chips Ahoy with a massive glass of milk, and I have to say, I’m enjoying them. That faint ceramic aftertaste, no doubt the result of mind-boggling amounts of preservatives and alchemical goodies added to said Chips Ahoy in order to keep them Chewy, is almost pleasurable. I enjoy that these cookies are basic, they are without mystery or surprise. They all taste the same, look the same, and the chips are simply ahoy.

Not so with the other cookie of which I partook earlier this evening. That’s right, after some grade A takeout, I had me a fortune cookie. These devious things… I never know if I enjoy them or loathe them. Their mysterious, cryptic, and totally unspecific prophecies leave me hopeless and confused. They are relentlessly cheerful and optimistic, but always have such a dark, false sheen about them… They are the mad philosophers of the dessert world, crafted by twisted foreigners in distant lands using ancient Chinese snack voodoo. My fortune tonight was particularly grievous:

LEARN CHINESE – Baseball : Bang-qiu (indecipherable Chinese characters)


Let’s try the other side of the little slip of paper.

“Now is the time to go ahead and pursue that love interest!”
“Lucky Numbers 12,14,16,24,26,28”

Now hold on, cookie. Hold on.

You know what cookie, fuck you.

First you teach me what is probably the most useless Chinese word on earth (Why not teach me something practical Bathroom or Embassy or Free Tibet or Cheap Vodka. Come on, Baseball?) and now you’re telling me to go pursue that love interest. Oh. That love interest…

Wait who the fuck are you talking about? What love interest?

What ever happened to the solemn, mystical, Eastern advice once housed in that stale, tasteless shell? You know who doesn’t say things like Go Ahead or use exclamation points? Zen Confucian monk masters and shit. Yet here they are, splattered all over my little slip, stupid advice followed by the grammatical equivalent of the double thumbs up.

So I suppose we can safely discount this entire enterprise as a fraud and move on, right?


It’s a fortune cookie. They don’t call them Shot In The Dark cookies, or Meaningless Drivel cookies. Does this mean that somewhere outside of my shallow Western perception lurks a love interest that I don’t even know about? Am I subconsciously enamored and merely lacking the introspective faculties to notice? Or maybe the Easterners thought of that, and are merely toying with me, knowing that their little biscuit’s weird phrasing would drive me into a fit of existentialist psychosis.


I’m beginning to understand the appropriate course of action… Armed with this glimpse into the future, imprecise as it may be, I can change my fortunes. I am once again in control of my own destiny. This little paper holds no more sway over my life than any other, it’s merely a post-it found in a shitty cookie.

Still… the curse of Love is not something to be taken lightly. It’s like a bomb threat; no matter how likely that it’s a hoax, the building should still be evacuated and everyone moved to safety. Just in case. I should do the same, lest some rogue Love Interest I cannot even imagine come and shackle me to that dismal emotional chain. We’ve been down that road before, friends, and know the wastelands to which it leads.

Untying these mental knots has exhausted me, and so I must retire early tonight. I’ll bury myself in William S. Burroughs; his junkie madness and frantic incoherence is a place I feel much more at home.

“Now is the time to go ahead and pursue that love interest!”

Shut up.


steady flexin with some next type of motion


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