Although he will pick up the check at dinner, cover your movie ticket, and shell out for your cab ride home, it is you who will ultimately pay for this week’s date.
Despite hours of stunned silence, rabid denial, and heartrending self-deception next Thursday, your stillborn will be still dead.
It seems like no matter how many times you pick up the Bible, you always discover something new within its pages for you to wildly misconstrue.
After weeks of preparation and anticipation, your plan to escape from the psychiatric hospital will fail for very predictable reasons.
Broad, sweeping generalizations are often ignorant and easily disproved, which is why you wish Mexicans would stop making them all the time.
You’ve never been able to bear the sight of blood. Luckily for you, concentrated arrangements of sulfuric acid will liquefy your retinas long before the radial arm saw starts in.
Appalled by social norms and dominant values, you will take a bold one-night stand against monogamy this week.
Nobody said it was going to be easy, or even that it was going to be worthwhile, sensible, or in any way tasteful—actually, people pretty much avoided talking to you after hearing of your plans to build an electric high-chair.
Continuing a proud, age-old tradition, you will hand down your family’s priceless heirlooms to the next generation of Chinatown pawnbrokers this week.
The stars understand that you’re upset at them and everything, but it’s really not fair to condemn the whole lot just because one of its members gave you skin cancer.
There’s only so much you can do to guarantee success, unless of course you’re finally prepared to sacrifice your dignity.
You will be reduced to a mere statistic as soon as someone starts keeping track of how many Americans are deservedly paralyzed in motorcycle accidents each year.
