Depression will wash over you exactly like a great wave this week, leaving sand everywhere you don’t want it.
You’re about to learn that words can hurt, especially those written in the Demon Alphabet of Foul Khal-Ru the Soul-Drinker.
You’ll be violated hundreds of times by out-of-control alcoholics, but it’s to be expected, considering that you’re the local ordinance against drunk and disorderly conduct.
Right about now, you’re probably dying to know what all has happened since you fell asleep last Valentine’s Day.
A dark time in your life will come to a sudden end after an unexpected, drastic improvement in Ronald Reagan’s condition.
You’d long given up any hope, but a voice from your past will inform you that it is indeed okay for you to have the rest of the cottage cheese.
It has always been difficult for you to say you’re sorry, but you will face your greatest challenge this Thursday, when wasps build a nest in your larynx.
You claim that you never asked for this crap, but there’s your signature, plain as day, on all the crap-request forms.
You’ll learn an important lesson about violence this week—specifically, what can happen when you’re not very good at it.
Your kissing booth will raise a lot of money for charity, but you’re about to see more asses than you ever knew existed.
The weird and sometimes unfriendly looks you’ll receive on your bus ride through the South are perhaps the only downside to your new hobby as a Civil Rights re-enactor.
Everyone warned you that nothing good would come of dishonesty, but you’re perfectly happy with all the mediocre stuff that did.
