It’s lunchtime on Thursday. The university commons room is abuzz. Students mill about, others dart their way to class. Blazer-wearing faculty walk to classes or offices. Administration rush around in an attempt to keep the whole operation from crashing. I weave through them with determination. I have a meeting with a vending machine.

Happy almost Valentine’s Day, everyone! I actually saw something that was exactly this: a man made out of chocolate claiming to be “the perfect man.” It was wrapped in a colorful box with a special 1950s flair, and it was so incredibly stupid that Reya’s dialogue here was almost exactly what was going through my head.

Capricorn Dec. 22—Jan. 19

Next week you’ll meet the man of your dreams at the deli counter in the supermarket. He’ll be wearing a white uniform and a papier-mâché hat and he will ask you if you want your bologna sliced thin. Smile demurely and ask him what he would recommend to people who like average-sized sandwiches. If he says, “I don’t give advice on matters like that, I just cut the meat the way the customer tells me to” he’s the wrong fellow. It’s the chap next to him who’s the man of your dreams.

Let this be a lesson to all of you: If you ever have a sore that you can’t quite identify, call a medical professional before you start poking at it. You never know what that sore could turn into.

Footnotes are stupid. They’re superfluous.