You will be shocked to learn that your Las Vegas wedding, performed by a transvestite Elvis impersonator, is neither legal nor binding.
Your week will be full of success, tempered by depression over the fact that your future can be boiled down to single sentences.
You’re starting to suspect that the makers of heroin are trying to turn it into a whole way of life instead of just a drug.
Your view of yourself as the victim in every situation will earn you your own cable talk show.
A published collection of your letters will achieve success not for its literary merit, but because you always chose such neat postcards.
It’s okay: You’re just big-boned, which, along with your anorexia, makes you look like an inflatable skeleton.
You will be nonplussed to receive a lifetime achievement award from the National Association for the Advancement of Lifetimes.
You will contract a dangerous virus that will target both your brain and the 18- to 26-year-old male demographic.
As a poet once said, “All who ever lived have died/But not one died of love, nay, nor of a broken heart.” Consequently, you’re going to need a gun.
Don’t just demand the best from yourself and those around you. Demand coffee from yourself and those around you.
You will develop a cosmology rooted in the notion that holy vessels containing God’s divine light were shattered to create the universe, only to realize that you’re about the two billionth person to do so.
Admit it: Things just haven’t been the same for you since you gave in and started wearing pants again.
