You are relived to find that, although you’ve left the window open and pages are indeed being torn from the calendar, you’re not actually hurtling though time at a breakneck pace.
You’ve got tough row to hoe in front of you this week, which seems like merely a folksy euphemism until you find you’ve inherited a run-down potato farm.
Conflicts at work and at home are cleared up instantly this week when you decide that all women are basically just crazy bitches.
Your life certainly isn’t working out the way you had planned. Try to find some sort of equivalent of unplugging it and starting it over.
You’re pretty sure that if God had really meant for man to fly, he would have given us all the ability to afford our own airplanes.
The furious mobs will finally stop burning you in effigy next week, but only because they’ve decided to stop playing around with dolls and go right to the source.
You’ve always enjoyed story problems, so maybe you’ll enjoy the one the police tell you about your car being found 200 miles away three days ago with eight dead women in the trunk.
The really interesting thing about next week isn’t the remarkable size of the lobsters or how the polluted environment has affected their aggressiveness, but it’s closely related.
The bad news is your favorite shirt will be stained beyond saving next week; the good news is your favorite tie will be untouched, which is miraculous when you think about how many times you’ll be shot.
The problems of reconciling the spiritual and material, or the intellectual and emotional, shall seem as nothing to you when compared with the problem of asking Erin out to the movies.
They may be laughing at you now, but they’ll have to stop eventually if only to eat, catch their breath, and get a good night’s sleep in preparation for laughing at you all day tomorrow.
Sometimes all you want is to relax in your sweats with a movie and a bowl of popcorn, but this week you’ll want six units of whole blood, clean bandages, a splint, and plenty of morphine.
