I’ve suddenly begun to react violently to fortune cookies—as if they’re contagious, as if their vague predictions and mindf–kery warrants a hazmat response.
Like on Christmas Day, when the last thing a family facing terminal illness needs is nutritionless, factory-made soothsaying along with their Chinese takeout.
“Get the f–k out of my house!” I (may as well have) yelled as I frantically stuffed a bag of the cookies into an overflowing trash can.
Read more at The Daily Beast.
