Unfortunate Cookies
"Be sensitive, but not overly sensitive." What a disappointment. I am drinking a pint of beer as I crumple the small slip of paper and toss it on the counter next to the Bob Ross Chia Pet. I didn't read my lucky numbers. Why bother? The whole point of the fortune cookie is that slip of paper. What I just read sounds like life advice you would get on an ice cream wrapper at a theme park. I worked my ass off today, took a $12,000 loss on one of the houses that we can't live in, and the "Low Fuel" light came on as I pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the apartment complex. I don't need a ten cent Dear Abby wannabe message. I need a slip of paper pulled out of cheap folded pastry that says something like "You'll win the lottery and a long lost cousin will give you a fully restored 1970 Ford Torino GT convertible."
Overly sensitive, my ASS. I take a dump in a combination bathroom/closet everyday. Who writes this fortune cookie crap? I don't need life advice. I need someone in China to lie to me right now! I need someone on the other side of planet earth to type out "The Hunan Beef you ate was good, but the contract offer you will get from the Baltimore Orioles to play third base will be better". Damn fortune cookies. "Be sensitive, but not overly sensitive". I had to park my Ford Explorer two inches from another car because some jerk can't center his vehicle properly in his parking space. How about a fortune that says "He won't swing his door wide and dent your car."
Lucy is lying under the table licking my leg. My stomach starts to rumble. Hunan Beef. The pint of beer is half gone. I grab the crumpled slip of paper and open it back up. I am overly sensitive. I flip it over. My lucky numbers are 19, 26, 6, 45, 42, 35. I don't care. We don't have a lottery in Alabama. I don't have a permanent parking space. I don't have a lawn. And as I just realized, I don't have a fortune.
The food is gone. I ate it all. I grabbed the laptop. The power cord drags pathetically behind me. I have now found my way onto the combination porch/storage area/cigar oasis. I light a Macanudo with a match that came from a box with a gas mask printed on it.
The vegetables slices were larger than what you get at other Chinese restaurants. I got a text from Stephanie before I left work that read "I'm ordering Chinese. Do you want something?" Hunan Beef is my go to. It was fantastic. I asked where it came from. The response was "From that place across the street." Well, that place across the street makes the best Hunan Beef. Unfortunately, the fortune cookies suck. I need a fortune that reads "You don't have to spray bleach and water on the porch tonight to enjoy your cigar." Pee pads and dog turds.
I can't catch a break. I write this blog. I don't even know how to post a damn picture on it right. Lucy lays down beside my chair. I start on another pint. Tom Petty plays from my playlist. "Running down a dream that never would come to me...." Perfect. Thank you, Tom Petty, for summarizing my life in this apartment. Tom gets me. Bob Ross Chia Pet doesn't get me. The Fortune Cookie writer doesn't get me. Tom Petty gets me, but he's dead. So, there's that.
I smoke my cigar as bleach vapors, pee pad smells and smoke fill the air. I make this best of it as Tom Petty rests in peace Over Yonder.
Overly sensitive, my ASS. I take a dump in a combination bathroom/closet everyday. Who writes this fortune cookie crap? I don't need life advice. I need someone in China to lie to me right now! I need someone on the other side of planet earth to type out "The Hunan Beef you ate was good, but the contract offer you will get from the Baltimore Orioles to play third base will be better". Damn fortune cookies. "Be sensitive, but not overly sensitive". I had to park my Ford Explorer two inches from another car because some jerk can't center his vehicle properly in his parking space. How about a fortune that says "He won't swing his door wide and dent your car."
Lucy is lying under the table licking my leg. My stomach starts to rumble. Hunan Beef. The pint of beer is half gone. I grab the crumpled slip of paper and open it back up. I am overly sensitive. I flip it over. My lucky numbers are 19, 26, 6, 45, 42, 35. I don't care. We don't have a lottery in Alabama. I don't have a permanent parking space. I don't have a lawn. And as I just realized, I don't have a fortune.
The food is gone. I ate it all. I grabbed the laptop. The power cord drags pathetically behind me. I have now found my way onto the combination porch/storage area/cigar oasis. I light a Macanudo with a match that came from a box with a gas mask printed on it.
The vegetables slices were larger than what you get at other Chinese restaurants. I got a text from Stephanie before I left work that read "I'm ordering Chinese. Do you want something?" Hunan Beef is my go to. It was fantastic. I asked where it came from. The response was "From that place across the street." Well, that place across the street makes the best Hunan Beef. Unfortunately, the fortune cookies suck. I need a fortune that reads "You don't have to spray bleach and water on the porch tonight to enjoy your cigar." Pee pads and dog turds.
I can't catch a break. I write this blog. I don't even know how to post a damn picture on it right. Lucy lays down beside my chair. I start on another pint. Tom Petty plays from my playlist. "Running down a dream that never would come to me...." Perfect. Thank you, Tom Petty, for summarizing my life in this apartment. Tom gets me. Bob Ross Chia Pet doesn't get me. The Fortune Cookie writer doesn't get me. Tom Petty gets me, but he's dead. So, there's that.
I smoke my cigar as bleach vapors, pee pad smells and smoke fill the air. I make this best of it as Tom Petty rests in peace Over Yonder.
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