Fortune echoes in the void
Of hundreds of meals enjoyed in my Park Avenue apartment, chow mein was my last. It was my $6 reward for having dragged, rolled and huffed another 60 pounds of my former life – the one I had before I decided to relocate to the UK – eight blocks to the donation bin at the local mission. I suppose I could've just used that $6 for a taxi, but then I wouldn't have gotten a fortune cookie out of it.
In the sole remaining chair in my apartment, I sat before the now empty Chinese takeaway carton, with a few more ibuprofren-enabled hours of lugging boxes ahead of me.
Tearing open the fortune cookie's clear plastic wrapper, I thought three things:
1) They don't even have these in China.
2) I hope this cookie isn't stale like the last one.
3) This fortune better say something good.
It read, "You will soon travel abroad."
Drawing a slow breath, I scanned the nearly empty space that was once my home. Assessing the final precarious tower of awkwardly packed boxes awaiting transportation, I couldn't help but feel that the cosmos hadn't been paying attention to my life plans at all. Incredulous, I responded as any exhausted Canadian might, after spending more than a grand and weeks of preparation to move overseas:
"Noooooo shit!" I yelled.
"No shit," my four walls echoed back. "Nooooo shhhhhhit."