Article copyI had my first — and so far, only — fortune cookie in London.
And it was empty.
I kid you not. While every other guests at the table enjoyed their ticky-tacky Chinese suggestion of a vague probability wrapped in a hazy possibility, I had nothing. Zilch. Nada. No fortune in my cookie(1), just the fragments of that rather dull biscuit in my hand.
But you know what? Passed the first moment of slight disappointment — I remember mumbling something along the line of "Gee, great. Story of my life" — I actually looked upon it as a cool, well, "sign".
I decided that the only cosmic signification I would squeeze out of the incident was that for me, luck was not a factor. Nothing is written. My life does not depend on the positions of some faraway celestial body on the day and time I was born. Everything and anything is possible.
Hey, starting with a new business idea. The Rationalist cookie(2).
I mean, I can make a better profit by saving on the production costs. No wacky prediction ticket to roll inside the damn pastry.
I bake you a cookie, you make your own chance(3).