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?

A scientist 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.