Well I hope you’re happy. Not only were you crushed into little tiny pieces before I unwrapped you, you didn’t even have a fortune inside. I was so disappointed.
When I first poured your little broken bits into my hand looking for that coveted slip of paper dictating how I would live my life for the next ten minutes before forgetting about you completely, I was filled with the kind of breathless anticipation one gets right before opening a present on Christmas morning.
I was initially confused when I couldn’t find it, and I immediately went into Justification Mode. “Maybe I just missed it. This cookie is a mess and I ripped into the wrapper with extra enthusiasm. Maybe it just fell on the floor.”
Sifting through your broken pieces again, the justification turned to denial: “Any minute now. I’ll find it. It’s here somewhere, I know it." I grew more and more anxious as I frantically searched under my napkin, in the folds of my pajama pants and on the floor. Where was the reward for finishing my meal? What was I going to do without that little piece of paper chirping out sometimes confused or misspelled but always cheerful statements advising me to “Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned”, or “Always remember to wear your best pants when fighting for freedom”, or “Please visit us at www.wontonfood.com”?
As I lie here on my bed in a state of apathy and despair, slowly and painfully digesting the entire pint of sweet and sour chicken that I wolfed down in a state of giddy anticipation while blissfully unaware that my dinner was about to turn into a bigger disappointment than "Aladdin 2: The Return of Jafar", all I have to say, Fortune Cookie, is that I’m very disappointed. This is not the level of service I have come to expect from you. Please take care that this does not happen again. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Molly
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