While under the influence of peyote, you will write a 7,000-word essay on religious symbolism in Ray Donovan and pitch it successfully to an editor at The Atlantic.
For three harrowing minutes an image of you wearing Calvin Klein briefs will be projected onto a fifty-foot billboard in Times Square. Passers-by will be traumatised. Three will go into cardiac arrest.
A freak industrial accident will leave you armless, legless and legally married to Natasha Kaplinsky.
You will discover that the highest-rated TV show in Mexico is a telenovela based on the events of your life.
A woman you do not love will try to cure you of a disease you do not have.
Play your cards right and by this time next year you will own a fleet of delivery trucks and two Rottweilers named Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer. Play them wrong and you will spend Christmas on remand at Belmarsh prison.
Events will make it clear to you that the enemy of your enemy is simply good at making enemies.
After eight rejections your short story “Flight” will be published in Granta. Three days later you will be thrown from the sixtieth floor of the Shard by a bodybuilder.
Wise investment in cotton futures will leave you fabulously wealthy and altogether less committed to living la vie bohème.
You will be adopted by the paramount chief of Uganda’s Kebu Yuu community. Each month he will send you a kilo of corn meal, two kilos of sorghum and a £100 Apple Store gift card.
If you work hard today you will be able to turn some of this week’s major catastrophes into minor disasters.
Mercury is in retrograde. Avoid the Bakerloo line.
While backpacking through Europe you will be mistaken for a Spanish heiress and kidnapped by Basque separatists.
Scholars will conclude that the quatrain by Nostradamus referring to “Le Grand Imbecile” is about you.
Your debtors will default, your tailor will betray you, and a sleeveless cashmere cardigan will save your life.
Your podcast will convince a passing squadron of alien warships that we deserve extermination.
No one understands why there are now two moons in the night sky. Apart from you. You understand.
Beware. Your kidneys are actively plotting against you.
Don’t buy that collapsible boat. Don’t flee to Naples with your favourite eunuch. Stand and fight. The council supports you.
Linus Pauling was right. Megadoses of vitamins keep the werewolves at bay.
You are not living your best life. You are living the best life of Marie-Madeleine-Marguerite d’Aubray. Carry on.
Three separate televangelists will list you as next of kin on their health insurance forms.
Today you will have to navigate the treacherous waters between the Scylla of gluttony and the Charybdis of starvation.
For the chosen, there is life after death. You will go to bed smoking and rise in flames.