Non-Fiction

I met the devil Saturday evening. He lives in a lovely home in Etobicoke. I dined at his table for dinner. I was well fed and given wine to my heart's content from the women of the house, while he steered the conversations. 

After dinner he read my fortune. Told me I worried too much, and I would be financially  troubled, and that the man in my life didn't see me as a priority. 

He told me that North America was upside down. That men here weren't as strong as they should be with their women, and that he never did the dishes. 

When I felt the vomit rise in my throat, I excused myself. 

The moral of the story, kids? The devil can't tell a fortune worth shit, and patriarchy is thriving in hell.