Next Tuesday will be dull and nothing remarkable will happen.
Your favorite sports teams will all end their seasons with losses.
Your lucky numbers are 9-1-1.
You will eat too many Doritos.
You will not again work out until someone accidentally refers to your weight problem.
Your dreams will crumble and burn before your eyes. And then you will wake up and fail even harder than your subconsciousness was able to conjecture.
You will spend several hours grinding away at a video game for the next several weeks rather than doing something constructive with your life.
You will make an ass out of yourself the next time you are asked to say grace at a family function.
You will fail to notice the orange gunk between your teeth as you grin like an idiot to those who cross your path.
The next time you bring a woman to climax, it will be because she is thinking of another.
Your boss hates you and wishes you would quit.
The Winter Olympics will disappoint you.
You will continue to remain poor and irrelevant.
She is cheating on you. With me. Right now, behind the maitre d' counter.
You ingest large amounts of MSG.
The cookie I came in was stale.
"Your boss hates you and wishes you would quit."
More like my boss has a creepy crush on me and I wish I would quit.
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