Last night I dreamed I met a psychic at the airport. He reportedly had a 100% accuracy rate in his predictions, but with a twist. He gave predictions by making three statements. Two of those statements were always false, and one would always be true. You just had to guess which was the true statement.
Gary left to get a pretzel, and I found myself chatting one-on-one with the psychic.
"The plane you're about to board will crash," he said to me. "You'll be chosen for a key role in an upcoming off-Broadway play. And you're never going to fit into those cute brown pants you bought even though they were unrealistically tiny."
"Hold on a second," I said. "You're 100% positive only one of those is true?"
He shrugged and cracked open a can of Diet Dr. Pepper (more product placement, no doubt). "You might get into them, but they'll never really look that good because you're not eighteen." Then the asshole made a very unflattering motion with his hands. "You know…bulges."
In a huff, I left him sitting in his hard, plastic airport seat and went to find my husband. I told Gary the three predictions. He looked concerned. "We should take a different flight!" he said.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "But he's right. Those pants are a lost cause."
So we took the flight. Cut to a very tense moment of Gary and me clinging to our armrests as the plane takes a sudden dive.
Gary muttered a few expletives and something about having told me we should have taken a different flight.
"Don't you realize what this means?" I cried gleefully.
Just then, a lady from the next row leaned over to me. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering. Have you ever done any stage acting?"