1 like = 1 method of fortune-telling
1. Let a drop of pinot grigio fall on a white cloth in the sun. However long it takes to evaporate, in seconds, is how many years you have left.
2. Wrap a grandmother's ring in a piece of Wonderbread. Slip it under your pillow and you will dream of the best sandwich in your future.
3. Count the imperfections in the skin of your lover's left shoulder, divide by how many months you have known each other, and this will tell you the latitude at which you die.
4. Reading tea leaves, but you go to the dog park and watch the dogs.
5. Go to the tide flats. Disturb a clam in such a manner that it spurts water. Collect the water in a glass flask. Leave it in the sun for a week. Add a drop of dry sherry. Drink. Your next three dreams will predict the arc of your career.
6. Grab the nearest nonfiction book and open to a random page. The first sentence beginning with K is an omen of the remainder of your year.
7. Set fire to your worst enemy's home. The volume of their screams in decibels will tell you the age at which your second-worst enemy perishes.
8. Take orange blossom water and cast it on the ground three times. Read the pattern of droplets. Do the opposite, because orange blossoms are GODDAMN LIARS.
9. Chop garlic & onion. Cook in butter until soft. Add 2 cans of stewed tomatoes. Add chicken broth, bay, basil, thyme, oregano, water & wine. Mix. Cover & simmer 30 minutes. Stir in shellfish of choice. Bring to boil. Lower heat, cover, simmer 5-7 minutes. Dinner is foretold
10. Shoot an arrow directly upwards. Where it falls, build a house. Live in the house for seven years, speaking to nobody. If at the end of seven years you wish to rejoin society, this is an omen of extroversion.
11. Take a turnip and carve eyes, a mouth, and a nose into it. Let it dry seven weeks until its visage is as frightening as possible. Take a picture. Post it on Instagram. The third person to like it is your soulmate, and must be destroyed.
12. During the next thunderstorm, observe proper safety precautions, such as not standing near trees or powerlines. If you are struck by lightning, it is a sign that you have bad luck.
13. Scatter inkblots upon good thick paper. Note their shape. Do they spell anything? Perhaps "run" or "behind you"? No? Screw it then, just look over your shoulder.
14. Take a piece of cedar wood. Dab it with rosewater. Hang it in your closet. When next you open it, breathe deeply. Does it smell more like cedar or more like roses? If the former, you're probably fine. If the latter, you die alone, unloved, with a cat in your mouth.
15. Go to the nearest park. Count three white stones. Pick up the fourth. Are there discolorations, cracks, flaws? What shapes do they make? If the stone is not pure white, this is a sign that it must be thrown at a capitalist.
16. Take a whole wheat roll. Put it under your pillow. Now you've got a snack for later.
17. During the first rains of autumn, collect six ounces of water in a copper vessel. Take it inside. When it has stilled, cast kosher salt upon it. When it has stilled again, stare into it. You will see a vision of a husband. Not necessarily yours. Some husband somewhere.
18. Find a construction site. Count the number of excavators. This is how many ravens are in your immediate future.
19. If a dream of your future lover you would have, at midnight take seven sweet biscuits and eat them one by one, and between each say the vilest of oaths, as are like to make your mother weep, and after each oath sip from a pipkin of strong brandy. Then to bed.
20. Open a playlist of ABBA songs. Hit shuffle. The first song that comes up foretells your week.
21. Scatter a handful of groats upon the earth. Watch and wait. The first animal that attempts to eat them is a representation of your future nibling.
22. Go to the library. Spin around thrice widdershins, and on the third spin, catch up a book from the nearest shelf. Its Dewey decimal number is how many days are left before Carl notices what you've been up to.
23. The name of the third indie coffeeshop you pass on Friday the thirteenth sums up the rest of your current decade of life, e.g. Vivace: good. Ladro: bad.
24. Drive into the desert at night. The first mysterious light you see in the sky is the color of jacket you should wear tomorrow. The second mysterious light is your future lover. The third mysterious light is a sign it's time to get the hell out of the desert.
25. Pick a random episode of Queer Eye. Study carefully the shirt Tan is wearing when he visits the person's closet for the first time. This will tell you much about your upcoming performance review.
26. Go to the nearest large city. Take a die. When you come to an intersection, roll the die: even, you turn left; odd, you turn right. Do this as many times as your die has sides. At the end of your trip, look at the line you've now drawn on the map. Does it mean anything?
27. Turn on NPR. Set a timer for five minutes. When it goes off, the first complete sentence uttered is the universe's advice to you for the day.
28. Search "ballet" on Twitter. The fifth result will predict your week. The bio of the writer will predict the rest of your month.
29. Make a tisane of rosemary. Drink it precisely at noon. The next time you sleep you will awaken in the precise pose in which you’ll die.
30. Reading tea leaves but you go to the waterfront at low tide and look at the configurations of trash on the rocks.
31. Open The Great Gatsby to a random page. Take the first sentence beginning with C. Run it through an anagram generator. Take the fifth result. If you're a Scorpio, this will foretell the best meal of your life.
32. Get a capuchin monkey. Give it Scrabble tiles. Don't let it eat the Scrabble tiles. Wait for it to put them down in a manner you can interpret. Wait hours. Get discouraged. Wander off. Come back to discover you've lost the monkey. Give up and read a newspaper horoscope.
33. Travel to the headwaters of the Nile. Sleep without mosquito netting. The pattern of bites on your right thigh will advise you on the best possible dinner for Wednesday.
34. Have children. When they are all at least five years old, take them to a park. See what activities they select, whether tree-climbing or sliding or playing in a sandbox. Each of these omens will tell you whether you should have had that child.
35. Reading tea leaves but you drink a bottle of organic apple cider vinegar and examine the shape of the mother of vinegar left in the bottom.
36. To know whether you’ll get a raise, go into the woods and find a pine cone. Pierce it with an iron nail and leave it under your oven for seven days. On the eighth day, if you dream of Bear Grylls smoothing baby oil upon himself, your future holds only penury.
37. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS SCRYING METHOD, BEGINNERS PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT:
To ascertain whether your crush likes you back, take a piece of paper and write upon it these words:
"Do you like me, y/n"
Pass it to them, and if they circle Y, they do.
To ascertain whether your crush likes you back, take a piece of paper and write upon it these words:
"Do you like me, y/n"
Pass it to them, and if they circle Y, they do.
38. If of your cosmetic future you would dream, slip a mirror under your pillow. Then don't sleep, because you'll crack the mirror. Stay awake until night & day blend together & all is suffused with a halo of phosphenes. The vision you have before collapse is what you seek.
39. To find out if someone is a true friend, boil a Cornish game hen until the flesh falls off the bones. Disarticulate the skeleton and dry the bones in a warm oven. Next time you see your friend, throw the bones at them. If they scream, they are no friend of yours.
