A Town Called Misery
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Ever since I can remember, fortune cookies have told me that I'm going to die.

They never get too specific. Just the basics: Your Lucky Numbers Are 3, 12, and 57. You Are Going to Die. Or: Try the Spicy Pork Rolls! And Then Prepare to Die. It used to freak me out, but I've gotten used to it. In a way, it's flattering. How many people can say that the universe lets them know the score?

Someone once told me that as you approach the impossibly dense center of a black hole, the axioms of physics stop functioning. Equations choke on the infinite and vomit up nonsense. Space bends. Time warps. Math breaks.

A black hole is a place where our explanations stumble; where descriptions elude even the most elegant of minds. It is a place where our perception of reality meets reality itself —- and shatters.

For me, it's a place where fortune cookies issue death notices and you always lose the coin flip. It's a place where cats hiss and dogs run away. It's a place where, no matter where you are or what you're doing, it always rains on Monday.

My name is Lucky Monday. And that place is where I live.

This is my black hole.