A few years back, broke from 20 months of no work and much internet
and surviving on canned ABC/123's, it all happened.
Absent-mindedly gulping down the last of my starchy gruel, I noticed three remaining letters. I shook my head at first because in the bottom of my bowl was the pasta j, o, and b--in that order.
Not one to ignore signposts like this, I arose from my funk and found work within a week.
Now I was earning paychecks so I could even afford meat but I still had a supply of canned goop to work through, so near the end of another bowl swam (well, okay maybe floated is more apt) s... e... x..
And again, I couldn't ignore the Oracle of the Pasta Gods so I set out to break my dispiriting streak of sexual isolation.
And I did so successfully.
The next bowl brought me the letters t, h, and r which proved to me you can't always heed your food's advice.