When The Sister and I have a particularly bad day (of the Alexander-Terrible-Horrible-No-Good-Very-Bad quality), we have a tradition where we drink beer in bed. Dressed in pajama pants two sizes too big and entertained with really horrible television, we prop eight pillows behind our heads to provide maximal non-movement accessibility to the beer can and proceed to drink away our sorrows. It helps. Sometimes, we snack on chicken wings or cake, which also taste better in bed, but mostly, we just drink. And our day magically gets better.

Last night, during such an occasion, she turned to me and said, “You know how when you eat fortune cookies you’re supposed to add in bed to the end and make it sexual? I think the in bed really means this. And that makes every fortune awesome.”

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