Fortuneless Son

I just got a fortune cookie with nothing in it. I guess I can take that two ways. It may mean that, freed from the yoke of cookie-based predestination, my fate is my own. No mysterious, prescient god can pluck my future from shapeless potentiality and fold it into a strangely bland yet irresistible after-meal ritual. Or, perhaps more likely, these are the last words I will ever type and a meteor that has been whizzing through space for light years upon light years, unwaveringly aimed at my future face, is about to crash through my ceiling. Either way, I stand by my choice of teriyaki chicken. No regrets.

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