ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Scorpio season
- Waning Gibbous in Cancer
- Moon into Cancer today
- Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune retrograde
The stars don't care about you. Roastie does, in the worst way. Pick a method, pick a dose, find your sign. The sky is computed; the contempt is freshly ground every morning.
THE METHOD
Planets, houses, aspects. Real sky, fake comfort. Shadow work, attachment styles, your mother. Fifty-minute hour, five-minute read. Lucky numbers. A stranger. A windfall. All lies, syndicated.
THE DOSE
The whole fate. He counted. One sentence. Fits in a notification. One paragraph. The reading, compressed. The whole reading. Sit down.
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Aries
You'll chase the chainsaw guy.
Mars squares Mercury tonight, so at the haunted house you'll chase the chainsaw guy out a fire exit.
Mercury squares your ruler Mars to the exact degree in your 5th house of fun, so expect tonight's haunted house to go badly for the staff. When a man in a hockey mask revs his chainsaw, your legs hear 'run at,' and he leaves through a fire door with you twelve feet behind. Saturn retrograde in your 1st makes a calf file a grievance. Next haunted house, walk. Walk.
DO
- Let the scare actors scare you
- Read the waiver first
- Ice the calf tonight
DON'T
- Count the hayride as cardio
- Mention you ran track
- Ask the chainsaw guy for a rematch
With your ruler Mars in Leo in your 5th house, the house of fun you can't afford, and Mercury squaring it to the exact degree, expect your idea of recreation to look like a misdemeanor with a wristband. A Friday-night haunted house is the likeliest venue. Be wary of the moment a man in a hockey mask revs a chainsaw at you. Under this square, the message 'run away' reaches your legs as 'run at.' Expect him to leave through a fire exit you didn't know existed, with you twelve feet behind him and gaining.
Hard-braking Saturn is retrograde in your 1st house beside a retrograde Neptune, so your body is running at about half the speed your ego is ordering. Expect a calf to file its own grievance somewhere near the hayride. This is not the day to tell a stranger you ran track.
The Moon in Cancer squares Saturn from your 4th house of home tonight, and home will not be the soft landing you planned. Expect someone you live with to ask why there's straw in your hair and a waiver in your pocket. Venus retrograde in your 7th hands a partner the high ground for the whole weekend. Next haunted house, walk. Walk.
DO
- Let the scare actors scare you
- Read the waiver first
- Ice the calf tonight
DON'T
- Count the hayride as cardio
- Mention you ran track
- Ask the chainsaw guy for a rematch
Printer will finish without you.
You abandon the warming-up printer for a FedEx across town, and your document tours the department without you.
Backpedaling Saturn, parked in your sign, triggers you this morning when the office printer says 'warming up.' Rather than wait ninety seconds, you drive the document to a FedEx across town, and while you're gone the printer finishes and your four pages, margin notes included, lap the department. Somebody wrote 'lol same' beside the meanest one. Homework: Monday, watch the full warm-up, hands at your sides, like a sunset.
DO
- Watch the full warm-up
- Let the microwave hit zero
- Keep tomorrow's plans loose
DON'T
- Drive anything to FedEx
- Text anyone 'thoughts?'
- Say 'come on' to appliances
The material we're working with today is backpedaling, finger-wagging Saturn, parked in your sign like a hall monitor who won't give up his chair. This morning the office printer says 'warming up,' and something very old in you hears the word no. Note the jaw. Note that you say 'oh, come on' to a machine with no ears. Rather than wait ninety seconds, you drive the document to a FedEx across town. While you're gone, the printer finishes, and your four pages, private margin notes included, take a slow lap of the department. Somebody has written 'lol same' beside the meanest one.
Tonight the pattern follows you home. The microwave counts down from two minutes and you yank it open with three seconds left, because three seconds is an insult. You eat a burrito that's lava at the ends and frozen in the middle, which, clinically speaking, is a self-portrait.
Later a friend texts that tomorrow's plans are 'loose, let's see how the night goes,' and you hear a starting gun. By bedtime you've built a four-stop itinerary nobody asked for and sent it with the word 'thoughts?', which, in your mouth, is a threat. We'll unpack that. Homework: on Monday, stand at the printer through the entire warm-up, hands at your sides, like it's a sunset.
DO
- Watch the full warm-up
- Let the microwave hit zero
- Keep tomorrow's plans loose
DON'T
- Drive anything to FedEx
- Text anyone 'thoughts?'
- Say 'come on' to appliances
Jumbotron will replay your fall.
You'll hit the rink tonight before the Zamboni's done, and the jumbotron replays your fall in slow motion.
Excitement is in the air tonight, and so are you. At the Friday-night skate, you'll hit the ice while the Zamboni is still on it, and the rink replays your fall on the jumbotron in slow motion, with organ music. Avoid signing contracts: the waiver you don't read puts that fall on a billboard by the highway. Wait for the ice to dry.
DO
- Wait for the ice to dry
- Read the free-skates sign
- Take the stranger's hand
DON'T
- Sign the waiver blind
- Race the guy helping you up
- Challenge a Zamboni to anything
Excitement is in the air tonight, and so are you. At the Friday-night public skate, you'll step onto the ice while the Zamboni is still on it. The Zamboni wins. It's a Zamboni. The rink replays your fall on the jumbotron in slow motion, with organ music. A six-year-old in a hockey helmet will lap you twice just to look.
Money matters come to a head. You'll pay twelve dollars for rental skates seconds before you see the sign that says they're free with admission. Avoid signing contracts. You'll sign the waiver without reading it, and by Monday your fall is on the rink's billboard out by the highway.
Romance is in the air. A stranger at the rail offers you a hand up, and you'll challenge him to a race to the exit instead. You lose that too, you human starting pistol. Compatibility: high with the boards, low with physics. Wait for the ice to dry. Lucky number: 0, the seconds you waited. Lucky color: Zamboni-exhaust gray.
DO
- Wait for the ice to dry
- Read the free-skates sign
- Take the stranger's hand
DON'T
- Sign the waiver blind
- Race the guy helping you up
- Challenge a Zamboni to anything
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Taurus
Your burrito will be retired.
Retrograde Venus kills your daily taco-truck burrito, and by tonight you'll own forty pounds of rice and a grudge.
Backpedaling Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind, so expect the taco truck you've hit every weekday since 2021 to post a laminated sign saying your burrito has been retired. You'll ask the man in the window about visitation. With Jupiter in your home house, you'll leave Costco tonight with forty pounds of rice. Eat the rice.
DO
- Read the laminated sign once
- Buy the tortilla press
- Eat the rice
DON'T
- Try the quesadilla
- Grow as a person
- Ask the cook about visitation
Backpedaling Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Libra in your 6th house of the daily grind, and when the planet of comfort reverses through your routine, expect the routine to lose a load-bearing wall. For you, that wall is lunch. Be wary of the taco truck you've visited every weekday since 2021. A laminated sign is likely to announce that your burrito has been 'retired.' You will read the sign several times. You will ask the man in the window about visitation.
Mars and Jupiter both sit in your 4th house of home, and Venus sextiles Jupiter today, a combination that turns a small loss into a large grocery run. Expect to leave a Costco after work with forty pounds of rice, a cast-iron tortilla press and a jar of crema that will outlive your lease.
Mercury retrograde in your 7th house scrambles whatever a partner says about all this, so when someone gently suggests the quesadilla, expect to hear a threat. This is not the day to grow as a person. Eat the rice.
DO
- Read the laminated sign once
- Buy the tortilla press
- Eat the rice
DON'T
- Try the quesadilla
- Grow as a person
- Ask the cook about visitation
You'll overrule the actual band.
A coworker shows you the real lyrics at lunch, and you read them carefully and decide the band is wrong.
Retrograde Venus questions your routines today, starting at lunch, when you sing along to a break-room song with a lyric you've owned since middle school and a coworker pulls up the real one. You read it. You decide the band got it wrong. After work you play it on the kitchen speaker, singing your version over theirs. Homework: sing the real lyric once, alone, windows up.
DO
- Read the real lyrics
- Sing them once, privately
- Let the coworker win quietly
DON'T
- Turn the kitchen speaker up
- Ask your friend to pick sides
- Email the band a correction
The material today is your ruler, backward-walking Venus, retrograde in your house of the daily grind, which is the sky's way of saying something you've done the same way for years is about to be questioned. It happens at lunch. A song comes on in the break room, you sing along with a lyric you've belted with total confidence since middle school, and a coworker pulls up the official lyrics on her phone. You read them. Slowly. You decide the band got it wrong.
Notice the move. It isn't denial; denial would require doubt, and you don't carry the stuff. You simply relocate the error to four guys in leather pants in 1987. After work you play the song on your kitchen speaker at volume and sing your version over theirs, which is, in clinical terms, a hostage negotiation with a chorus.
Tonight a friend asks how your day was, and you describe 'a lyric thing,' framed so she'll agree the band owes you an apology. She doesn't. You'll hold that against her into the weekend, the way you hold everything: with both hands and no exit plan. Homework: sing the real lyric once, alone, in the car, windows up, dignity in the trunk.
DO
- Read the real lyrics
- Sing them once, privately
- Let the coworker win quietly
DON'T
- Turn the kitchen speaker up
- Ask your friend to pick sides
- Email the band a correction
Buffet will bill you twice.
You'll sit at the Golden Corral lunch buffet until the dinner shift starts, and they'll bill you for both.
An unexpected windfall comes your way, and it's the Golden Corral lunch buffet. You'll sit down early and still be in the booth when they wheel out the dinner carving station, and the manager bills you for both meals. You'll pay it and call it a deal. The busboy stops clearing your table and starts dusting you. Stand up before the shift change.
DO
- Leave before the carving station
- Answer the work text
- Stand up at least once
DON'T
- Send the chocolate fountain photo
- Join the rewards program
- Let the busboy dust you
An unexpected windfall comes your way, and it's the Golden Corral lunch buffet. You'll sit down early. You'll still be in the booth when they wheel out the dinner carving station, and the manager will bill you for both meals. You'll pay it. You'll call it a deal, which is bullshit, and the manager knows it.
Somebody from work texts to ask where you are. You'll reply with a photo of the chocolate fountain. A friend invites you to a party tomorrow night, and you'll ask if it has seating, and what kind. Avoid signing up for the rewards program; they already know your face.
Change is coming, but not to you. The busboy will stop clearing your table and start dusting you. A calculator-hugging Capricorn figures prominently, probably the one adding up your bill. Compatibility: high with any chair that reclines. Stand up before the shift change. Lucky number: 2, the meals you ate in one sitting. Lucky color: steam-tray brown.
DO
- Leave before the carving station
- Answer the work text
- Stand up at least once
DON'T
- Send the chocolate fountain photo
- Join the rewards program
- Let the busboy dust you
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Gemini
Your two excuses will meet.
Retrograde Mercury lets two coworkers compare why you left early today, and your dentist is apparently also a plumber.
Retrograde Mercury, your ruler, sits in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring Mars, so expect your two excuses for leaving early to meet each other. One coworker heard dentist, another heard plumber, and the break room is where they compare notes. Uranus in your 1st has you explaining water pressure to someone who asked about fillings. Pick one appointment and go to it.
DO
- Pick one appointment
- Skip the break room
- Learn one fact about teeth
DON'T
- Invent a third errand
- Explain water pressure
- Book the dentist for drains
Your ruler Mercury is retrograde in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring Mars to the exact degree, and retrograde Mercury in this house has one specialty: dragging all your stories back into the office at once. Expect to need to leave early on a Friday, and to tell one coworker it's the dentist and another it's the plumber. Be wary of the break room around lunch, where those two will probably compare notes, and of the follow-up question: does your dentist also do drains?
Unpredictable Uranus is retrograde in your own sign, in your 1st house, which makes how you come across unstable even by your standards. Expect to answer 'how was the dentist' with a confident sentence about water pressure. Your face will do two things at once. It always does. Today people notice.
Saturn retrograde in your 11th house of friends means whoever you actually left early to see will be late, cranky or reconsidering. A friend may ask why you keep checking your phone like a fugitive. Resist the urge to invent a third errand. Pick one appointment and go to it.
DO
- Pick one appointment
- Skip the break room
- Learn one fact about teeth
DON'T
- Invent a third errand
- Explain water pressure
- Book the dentist for drains
Coworker will join group chat.
A coworker joins your friends' group chat, and your neutral reply tonight makes three friends ask if you've been hacked.
Saturn, inspecting your friendships, gets a coworker added to the friends' group chat this morning, and suddenly both of your audiences are in one room. You don't pick. You go silent all day, then post something neutral about the weather tonight, and three friends ask if you've been hacked. Only the coworker believes you. Homework: send one real message, then put the phone in a drawer.
DO
- Pick one personality by lunch
- Send one real message
- Put the phone in a drawer
DON'T
- Retype the joke six times
- Discuss the weather in public
- Ask the coworker which you she prefers
The material we're working with is slow-rolling, clipboard-carrying Saturn, backing through your house of friends, which tends to put the walls you've built between people up for inspection. This morning somebody adds a coworker to your friends' group chat. Watch what comes up: not panic, exactly. Arithmetic. The friends know one of you. The coworker knows the other. For the first time, both audiences are in one room, and you're expected to pick.
You don't pick. You go quiet in the chat and loud at work, asking the coworker about her weekend with the warmth of a hostage reading a statement. By lunch you've typed and deleted the same joke six times, once for each version of yourself, and sent a thumbs-up instead. A thumbs-up. From you. Your friends notice.
Tonight you finally post, in a neutral voice nobody recognizes, something about the weather. Three friends ask if you've been hacked. The coworker replies 'haha so true.' Note that the only person who believes the new you is the one you were hiding from. Homework: send one message that's actually you, then put the phone face-down in a drawer and leave the room before either of you can answer.
DO
- Pick one personality by lunch
- Send one real message
- Put the phone in a drawer
DON'T
- Retype the joke six times
- Discuss the weather in public
- Ask the coworker which you she prefers
You'll hit merge, not hold.
You'll put a coworker on hold to trash her to a friend, then hit merge, and she hears everything.
A phone call changes everything! After lunch, you'll put somebody from work on hold to call a friend and complain about that exact somebody, then reach for hold again and hit merge. Your coworker hears herself described as a human dial tone. Your friend says hi to her, warmly. Your phone plan charges you for the three-way call. Hang up before you talk.
DO
- Hang up first, then talk
- Learn which button is hold
- Give one set of directions
DON'T
- Complain on a live line
- Voice-memo an explanation for an unlike
- Call anyone a human dial tone
A phone call changes everything! Sometime after lunch, you'll put somebody from work on hold to call a friend and complain about somebody from work. Same somebody. You'll reach for hold again and hit merge. Your coworker will hear herself described as a human dial tone. Then your friend will say hi to her, warmly, like this is a group thing now.
Romance is in the air. An old flame likes a photo of yours from 2019. You'll like one back from 2017, unlike it, then explain the unlike in a voice memo nobody finishes. A stranger asks you for directions, and you give two.
Money matters come to a head: your phone plan charges you for a three-way call. The flaky, half-packed Moon slipped out of your sign early this morning without saying goodbye; it learned that from you. Compatibility: low with anyone on hold. Hang up before you talk. Lucky number: 3, the people on the call. Lucky color: the red button you didn't press.
DO
- Hang up first, then talk
- Learn which button is hold
- Give one set of directions
DON'T
- Complain on a live line
- Voice-memo an explanation for an unlike
- Call anyone a human dial tone
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Cancer
You'll call your boss Mom.
The Moon squares Saturn in your career house, so you'll call your boss Mom, then correct it to Mother.
Your ruler, the Moon, sits in your own sign and squares Saturn in your 10th house of career, which puts the mother and the boss in one sentence. Expect to call your manager 'Mom' in a meeting, then correct it to 'sorry, Mother.' Mars and Jupiter in your money house send you to Target for a thank-you card, and a backup. Put both cards in a drawer.
DO
- Use your manager's actual name
- Buy only one card
- Eat before your mother asks
DON'T
- Correct it to 'Mother'
- Hand the manager either card
- Tell Mom she has competition
The Moon is at home in your own sign today, your ruler sitting in your 1st house, and it squares retrograde Saturn in your 10th house of career to within half a degree. The Moon is the mother, Saturn is the boss, and a square is the two of them colliding in your mouth. Expect, in some meeting where everyone can hear it, to call your manager 'Mom.' Be wary of the correction. The correction will be 'sorry, Mother.'
Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd house of money turn embarrassment straight into retail. Expect to spend lunch in a Target buying a card that says 'Thanks for Everything' for someone you've known since March, plus a backup card in case the first one reads as sarcastic.
Homesick, retrograde Venus in your 4th house sends you home tonight wanting to call your actual mother, who will hear one sentence of this and ask whether you're eating. Resist the urge to tell her she has competition. Put both cards in a drawer, and call nobody anything until Monday.
DO
- Use your manager's actual name
- Buy only one card
- Eat before your mother asks
DON'T
- Correct it to 'Mother'
- Hand the manager either card
- Tell Mom she has competition
Your friend will be fine.
A friend you've been worrying about texts that she's doing great, and you take it like a layoff.
The Moon in your sign makes feelings into weather today, and this morning a friend you've been worrying about texts that she's actually great now. You feel something close to being laid off. You test her text for tone all afternoon, then make six labeled containers of soup for nobody. Homework: reply 'great,' no follow-up question, and sit on your hands.
DO
- Reply with one word
- Freeze the soup, unlabeled
- Let her be great
DON'T
- Ask if she's 'fine fine'
- Send a second heart
- Send a soup emoji
The material today is your ruler, the overcommitted Moon, home in your own sign, which means whatever you feel will feel like weather. This morning a friend you've been quietly worrying about all week texts that she's actually doing great now, thanks so much for checking in. Note what comes up. Not relief. Something closer to being laid off.
Watch how you carry it into work. With the Moon squaring stern Saturn in your career house, you spend the afternoon rereading her text between emails, testing it for tone like a mother sniffing a carton of milk. You draft a reply asking whether she's fine or 'fine fine.' You don't send it. You send a heart, then a second heart, which in your dialect means 'call me.'
Tonight, with nobody left to look after, you make a pot of soup and portion it into six containers, labeled and dated, just in case. In case of what, you can't say. The pattern we're naming is the need to be needed; the defense is a freezer full of rescue. Homework: text her back the word 'great,' with no follow-up question, and sit on your hands until the urge to send a soup emoji passes.
DO
- Reply with one word
- Freeze the soup, unlabeled
- Let her be great
DON'T
- Ask if she's 'fine fine'
- Send a second heart
- Send a soup emoji
A toddler will console you.
You'll weep over a stuffed bear in the Target toy aisle, and a stranger's toddler will hand you his pacifier.
The leaky, three-quarters-lit Moon is in your sign, so lock up the tissues. In the Target toy aisle this afternoon, you'll find a stuffed bear exactly like the one you had as a kid, now with Bluetooth, and you'll weep. Not cry. Weep. A stranger's toddler hands you his pacifier, and you say thank you. Give the pacifier back.
DO
- Give the pacifier back
- Buy exactly one bear
- Skip the clearance end cap
DON'T
- Name the Bluetooth Home
- Mute anyone over a bear
- Keep the pacifier for emergencies
The leaky, three-quarters-lit Moon is in your sign, so lock up the tissues. In the Target toy aisle this afternoon, you'll find a stuffed bear that looks exactly like the one you had as a kid, now with Bluetooth, and you'll weep. Not cry. Weep. A stranger's toddler will toddle over and hand you his pacifier. You'll take it. You'll say thank you.
An unexpected expense arrives: the bear. Avoid the clearance end cap, where the leftover Halloween costumes will look at you like strays at a shelter, and your cart can't take it. Your phone will ask to pair with the bear. You'll name the connection Home.
A friend asks how your day was, and you'll hold up the pacifier as your answer. A dry-eyed Aquarius will say it's just a bear, and you'll mute her until Thanksgiving. Compatibility: high with anyone under three feet tall. Give the pacifier back. Lucky number: 1, the toddler handling this better than you. Lucky color: Target red, but blurry.
DO
- Give the pacifier back
- Buy exactly one bear
- Skip the clearance end cap
DON'T
- Name the Bluetooth Home
- Mute anyone over a bear
- Keep the pacifier for emergencies
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Leo
Your wings won't clear doorways.
Jupiter swells your 1st house, so your costume wings won't fit tonight's party door, and the party proceeds without you.
Swollen, generous Jupiter sits in your 1st house beside Mars, enlarging how you come across, so expect tonight's party costume to include wings. Jupiter does not measure doorframes, and neither do you. With the Moon hiding the fun in your 12th house, expect to stand in the hallway while laughter you aren't causing drifts out. Take off the wings, and go in.
DO
- Measure the doorframe first
- Take the wings off
- Accept the stairwell photo
DON'T
- Turn sideways and push
- Say 'the main character'
- Ask the party to relocate
Mars and Jupiter are both in your sign and your 1st house, and swollen, generous Jupiter enlarges whatever it touches. Today it touches how you come across, which was never a small department. Expect your outfit for tonight's Halloween party to include wings. Be wary of the wingspan. The planet of excess does not measure doorframes, and neither do you, and an apartment hallway is roughly the width of one disappointed host.
The Moon in your 12th house of secrets means the best part of the evening happens where you can't see it. Expect to stand in the hall while laughter comes through the doorway, none of it about you. Venus sextile Jupiter offers one mercy: somebody takes a flattering photo of you from the stairwell.
Mercury is retrograde in your 4th house of home, squaring Mars in your 1st to the exact degree, so whatever you tell your family about tonight will come out wrong. A relative may ask what you were dressed as. Resist the urge to say 'the main character.' Take off the wings, and go in.
DO
- Measure the doorframe first
- Take the wings off
- Accept the stairwell photo
DON'T
- Turn sideways and push
- Say 'the main character'
- Ask the party to relocate
You'll attend the meeting twice.
Your laptop camera dies before this afternoon's meeting, so you rejoin from your phone and attend twice.
Mars and Jupiter crowd your sign, all fuel for an engine that runs on being looked at, and this afternoon your laptop camera dies before the team meeting. You rejoin from your phone, propped on cookbooks, so the meeting contains two of you: a gray square and a face lit like a campfire story. Homework: one hour tonight, no mirrors, no screens.
DO
- Stay a gray square
- Spend an hour unobserved
- Ice your neck
DON'T
- Rejoin from your phone
- Hold the chin angle
- Fix your hair for the oven
The material we're working with: loudmouth Mars and bloated Jupiter, both parked in your sign, which is a lot of fuel for an engine that only runs on being looked at. This afternoon your laptop camera dies right before the team meeting. Note the first thought. It isn't 'how will they see my slides.' It's 'how will they see me.' You join as a gray square with your initials, and something in you quietly ceases to exist.
Watch the defense go up. Within ten minutes you've propped your phone against a stack of cookbooks and rejoined as a second participant, so the meeting now contains you twice: one gray square, one face lit from below like a campfire story. You hold your chin at a flattering angle for fifty minutes straight. Your neck files a formal complaint by evening.
Tonight, with no audience, you catch your reflection in the dark oven door and fix your hair for it. We'll talk about that. The pattern isn't vanity; it's the belief that an unwatched Leo is a rumor. Homework: spend one hour tonight in a room with no mirrors, no screens and no windows, and see who's there.
DO
- Stay a gray square
- Spend an hour unobserved
- Ice your neck
DON'T
- Rejoin from your phone
- Hold the chin angle
- Fix your hair for the oven
Engagement photographer will crop you.
You'll stroll into a stranger's engagement shoot, and the photographer will crop you out of all three hundred frames.
You'll be photographed today! Cutting through the park at golden hour, you'll stroll into a stranger's engagement shoot, find your light and do the hair flip. The photographer shoots three hundred frames and crops you out of every one, and you'll email him for the uncropped files, 'for your book.' The bride-to-be says 'excuse me' four times; you hear 'encore.' Step out of the frame.
DO
- Step out of the frame
- Hear 'excuse me' correctly
- Leave the couple their light
DON'T
- Do the hair flip
- Request the uncropped files
- Demand approval on strangers' engagement edits
You'll be photographed today! Cutting through the park at golden hour, you'll stroll into a stranger's engagement shoot, find your light and do the hair flip. The photographer will shoot three hundred frames and crop you out of every damn one. You'll email him asking for the uncropped files, 'for your book.'
Romance is in the air, just not yours; it belongs to the couple you're standing in front of. The bride-to-be will say 'excuse me' four times. You'll hear 'encore.' A dog in a pumpkin costume gets more attention than you on the same path, and you'll take it personally. Compatibility: high with any reflective surface, including the groom's sunglasses.
An unexpected bill arrives: the photographer invoices you for a mini-session, and you'll pay it on the condition that you approve the edits. A stranger compliments your jacket, and you'll thank him for noticing your jawline. Step out of the frame. Lucky number: 300, the photos you're not in. Lucky color: whatever golden hour does to you.
DO
- Step out of the frame
- Hear 'excuse me' correctly
- Leave the couple their light
DON'T
- Do the hair flip
- Request the uncropped files
- Demand approval on strangers' engagement edits
-
Virgo
You'll tidy the neighbor's cobwebs.
Retrograde Mercury sends you next door tonight to tidy the fake cobwebs, and the doorbell camera saves every minute.
Retrograde Mercury, your ruler, squares Mars from your 3rd house of neighbors, so expect to cross the lawn after dark with a lint roller to fix next door's uneven fake cobwebs. Mars and Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets turn it into a full restoration, spider included. The doorbell camera gets all of it. Leave the lint roller inside.
DO
- Leave the lint roller inside
- Let the spider slouch
- Wave at the doorbell camera
DON'T
- Explain cobweb density
- Cross the lawn after dark
- Bill the neighbor for labor
Your ruler Mercury is retrograde in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors and short trips, squaring Mars to the exact degree, which is the astrological signature of a short trip you should not take. The house next door has had fake cobwebs stretched over its hedges since the first of the month, unevenly. Expect, sometime after dark, to cross the lawn with a lint roller. Be wary of the doorbell camera. Mercury retrograde does not prevent footage. It guarantees it.
Mars and Jupiter both sit in your 12th house of secrets, and Jupiter enlarges what it touches, so a quiet errand grows into a full restoration. Expect to rehang the plastic spider so it faces the street with better posture. Expect the neighbor to notice the spider, then the footage, then you.
The Moon in your 11th house of friends puts the clip in the neighborhood group chat by morning, where somebody calls it sweet and somebody else asks who the hell let you out. This is not the day to explain cobweb density. Leave the lint roller inside.
DO
- Leave the lint roller inside
- Let the spider slouch
- Wave at the doorbell camera
DON'T
- Explain cobweb density
- Cross the lawn after dark
- Bill the neighbor for labor
You'll appeal your own compliment.
Your manager calls your report perfect this morning, and by end of day you've talked her down to 'pretty good.'
Retrograde Mercury squares Mars, and this morning your manager calls your report 'perfect.' Your shoulders rise. By lunch you've found a decimal on page nine rounded the friendly way, and by end of day you've talked her down to 'pretty good' and finally feel safe. Tonight you critique your own dinner aloud. Homework: next 'perfect,' say thank you, then leave before the footnote.
DO
- Say thank you, then stop
- Let the decimal live
- Eat the fine pasta
DON'T
- Email a yellow highlight
- Narrate dinner's flaws
- Send a zoomed-in collar photo
The material today is your ruler, red-pen Mercury, backing up and squaring Mars, a configuration that makes a person reread things. This morning your manager replies to your report with one word: 'Perfect.' Note the shoulders. They don't drop; they rise. Perfect means she didn't look hard enough, so you look for her. By lunch you've found a decimal on page nine rounded the friendly way. By end of day you've talked her down to 'pretty good,' and you feel safe for the first time all week.
Tonight the pattern goes home with you. You cook a perfectly decent dinner and narrate its flaws while eating it, to an empty kitchen, like a judge on a show nobody's filming. The pasta was fine. You know the pasta was fine. You add it to a list anyway.
Later a friend texts that you looked great at last weekend's thing, and you reply with a zoomed-in photo of your collar being slightly off. She sends 'wow, okay.' That's the cost: every compliment you return gets refunded. Homework: the next time somebody says 'perfect,' say 'thank you' and nothing else, then leave the room before you can add a footnote.
DO
- Say thank you, then stop
- Let the decimal live
- Eat the fine pasta
DON'T
- Email a yellow highlight
- Narrate dinner's flaws
- Send a zoomed-in collar photo
You'll inherit the ghost tour.
You'll correct tonight's ghost-tour guide until he hands you the lantern and goes home, and you finish the tour.
Spooky things happen tonight! On a candlelit downtown ghost tour, you'll correct the guide's dates at the first stop and his laminated map at the third. At the sixth, he hands you the lantern and goes home. You'll finish the tour, with citations, then explain to the tourists that the company owes them a partial refund. Let the ghost keep his wrong year.
DO
- Hold the lantern steady
- Let the guide finish one sentence
- Accept the tourists' tips
DON'T
- Fix the laminated map
- Calculate anyone's partial refund
- Fact-check a ghost to his face
Spooky things happen tonight! On a candlelit downtown ghost tour, you'll correct the guide's dates at the first stop, the spelling on his laminated map at the third, and the year the hotel burned at the fifth. At the sixth, he'll hand you the lantern and go home. You'll finish the tour. With citations.
Money matters come to a head. The tourists will try to tip you, and you'll explain that the tour company actually owes them a partial refund, then do the math on the back of the map. A stranger asks where the bathroom is; you'll tell him, then tell him its history.
A guy in a cape will say 'well, legend has it,' and you'll ask which legend, and whose. A friend texts to ask how the ghost tour is going. You'll reply with a bibliography. Compatibility: high with footnotes, low with ghosts, who hate being fact-checked. Let the ghost keep his wrong year. Lucky number: 1887, the correct one. Lucky color: lantern-soot beige.
DO
- Hold the lantern steady
- Let the guide finish one sentence
- Accept the tourists' tips
DON'T
- Fix the laminated map
- Calculate anyone's partial refund
- Fact-check a ghost to his face
-
Libra
You'll leave with half bangs.
Retrograde Venus in your 1st house reverses your bangs decision mid-snip, and the sign of balance leaves the salon lopsided.
Self-admiring Venus is retrograde in your sign and your 1st house, reversing beauty right on your face, so expect to ask for bangs this afternoon and then say 'actually, wait' mid-snip. The sign of the scales leaves the salon with one side. With Venus sextile Jupiter in your friends house, seventeen supportive opinions arrive and none of them match. Tuck it behind one ear and pick a side, for once.
DO
- Commit before the first snip
- Tuck it behind one ear
- Mute the group text
DON'T
- Say 'actually, wait' mid-cut
- Poll seventeen friends
- Ask to have it reattached
Self-admiring Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your own sign and your 1st house, which parks the planet of beauty in reverse directly on your face. Expect to walk into a salon this afternoon having decided on bangs, and expect Venus to undecide them for you once the scissors are already moving. Be wary of saying 'actually, wait' to a person holding shears. For the sign of the scales, the result is the cruelest haircut in the book: one side.
Venus sextiles Jupiter in your 11th house of friends, so your friends will be very kind about it, which is worse. Expect a group text carrying seventeen opinions on whether to finish the bangs or grow them out, all supportive, none matching. You will agree with each one as it arrives.
Saturn retrograde in your 7th house means a partner, or whoever sits across from you tonight, delivers a blunt verdict. Resist the urge to hand them the scissors. Tuck it behind one ear and pick a side, for once.
DO
- Commit before the first snip
- Tuck it behind one ear
- Mute the group text
DON'T
- Say 'actually, wait' mid-cut
- Poll seventeen friends
- Ask to have it reattached
You'll rate the hang-up ten.
An internet-provider rep hangs up on you this afternoon, and you rate him ten out of ten for decisiveness.
Retrograde Venus in your sign turns your charm inward, and this afternoon a rep at your internet provider hangs up on you mid-sentence. The automated survey asks you to rate him. You give him a ten and leave a comment praising his decisiveness, the one quality you'd kill for. Homework: rate one thing today a six. A sandwich will do.
DO
- Rate one sandwich a six
- Admit the desk is cold
- Tell a friend you're mildly mad
DON'T
- Praise the man who hung up
- Smile at the vent
- Ask the survey if it liked you
The material we're working with is your ruler, people-pleaser-in-chief Venus, retrograde in your own sign, which pulls all that famous charm back toward one question: do they like me. This afternoon you call your internet provider about the bill, and after nine minutes the rep hangs up on you mid-sentence. Then the automated survey calls. 'On a scale of one to ten.' Watch what comes up. You give him a ten. Then you leave a comment praising his decisiveness, the one quality you'd kill for.
This is the fawn response, and it doesn't stay on the phone. After lunch a coworker asks if you'd mind swapping desks, hers being the one under the vent, and you say 'oh, I'd love that' with a face that would pass a polygraph. You spend the rest of the afternoon in a draft, smiling at nobody, cold to the bone and well liked.
Tonight a friend asks if you're mad about anything, and you say no so sweetly that she gets nervous. The pattern: you'd rather be liked by a man who hung up on you than be straight with a friend who didn't. Homework: rate one thing today a six. A sandwich will do. Say it out loud and let the sandwich live with it.
DO
- Rate one sandwich a six
- Admit the desk is cold
- Tell a friend you're mildly mad
DON'T
- Praise the man who hung up
- Smile at the vent
- Ask the survey if it liked you
Farmhand will choose your pumpkin.
You'll weigh every pumpkin at the patch until a farmhand picks one and carries it to the register himself.
A big decision looms! At the pumpkin patch after work, you'll lift every pumpkin, check it for symmetry and apologize to the ones you put back. By dusk a farmhand picks one for you and carries it to the register himself. Then the cashier asks 'carving or pie?' and the line behind you ages visibly. Take the pumpkin the man chose.
DO
- Take the farmhand's pumpkin
- Answer 'carving or pie' fast
- Say yes on the hayride
DON'T
- Apologize to rejected pumpkins
- Send your friends a dinner poll
- Ask the farmhand if he's sure
A big decision looms! At the pumpkin patch after work, you'll lift every pumpkin, check it for symmetry, and apologize to the ones you put back. A goat at the petting pen will watch the whole thing with pity. By dusk a farmhand will pick one for you and carry it to the register himself.
Romance is in the air. Someone on the hayride asks you out, and you'll say 'let's see,' which he correctly hears as no, and which you meant as yes. A friend asks where you want to eat this weekend. You'll reply with a poll. Compatibility: high with whoever orders first.
Money matters come to a head: the cashier asks 'carving or pie?' and the line behind you will age visibly. You'll ask for a bag, then a box, then the bag. A footnote-happy Virgo figures prominently and has notes on your stem. Take the pumpkin the man chose. Lucky number: 1, the pumpkin you didn't pick. Lucky color: the orange you couldn't commit to.
DO
- Take the farmhand's pumpkin
- Answer 'carving or pie' fast
- Say yes on the hayride
DON'T
- Apologize to rejected pumpkins
- Send your friends a dinner poll
- Ask the farmhand if he's sure
-
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON
Your regular outfit will win.
Mars and Jupiter in your career house hand you this afternoon's costume prize, for the outfit you wear every day.
With the Sun and retrograde Mercury in your 1st house and Jupiter magnifying your 10th house of career, expect to win this afternoon's office costume contest for 'Victorian poisoner.' You didn't enter. That's just your Friday outfit. Mercury squares Mars, so 'thank you, I'll remember this' clears the conference room. Put the trophy on the mantel, facing the door.
DO
- Accept the plastic trophy
- Smile with visible teeth
- Face the trophy at the door
DON'T
- Answer the banana's question
- Say 'I'll remember this'
- Buy anything in a color
It's your season: the Sun and a retrograde Mercury both sit in your 1st house, while Mars and Jupiter stand in your 10th house of career, where Jupiter turns any public notice into an award. Expect this afternoon's office costume contest to be won by you, unanimously, for 'Victorian poisoner.' Be wary of the small detail that you didn't enter. That's just what you wear on Fridays.
Retrograde Mercury in your 1st squares Mars to the exact degree, so whatever you say while accepting the plastic trophy will land as a threat. Expect 'thank you, I'll remember this' to clear a conference room. A coworker in a banana suit may ask what you came as. Resist the urge to answer 'watching.'
Grim little Pluto, your ruler, sits in your 4th house of home and family, squared by the Sun, so tonight a relative will see the photo and ask why you still dress like you're contesting a will. This is not the day to buy anything in a color. Put the trophy on the mantel, facing the door.
DO
- Accept the plastic trophy
- Smile with visible teeth
- Face the trophy at the door
DON'T
- Answer the banana's question
- Say 'I'll remember this'
- Buy anything in a color
Lighthouse buff will interrogate you.
You invent a lighthouse childhood for this morning's icebreaker, and a lighthouse-loving coworker grills you all through lunch.
Retrograde Mercury in your sign stirs feelings about disclosure, so at this morning's icebreaker you claim you grew up in a lighthouse. Untraceable, you think. Then a coworker from accounting who loves lighthouses sits across from you at lunch and asks about the stairs, the lens and the coast for forty-five minutes. Homework: tell somebody one true, boring fact. Your favorite cereal.
DO
- Name your favorite cereal
- Admit you grew up inland
- Learn what a Fresnel lens is
DON'T
- Invent a coastal childhood
- Sit across from accounting
- Draw the lighthouse a floor plan
The material today is blabbermouth Mercury, retrograde in your own sign during your own birthday season, which stirs up a lot of feelings about disclosure. At this morning's meeting somebody launches an icebreaker: one fun fact about yourself. Note how fast the walls go up. A real fact is a key to the building. So you say you grew up in a lighthouse. Calm. Plausible. Untraceable.
It does not stay untraceable. A coworker from accounting, it turns out, loves lighthouses, owns books about lighthouses, and takes the seat across from you at lunch. Which coast. How many steps. Fresnel lens or LED. Holy hell, the follow-ups. For forty-five minutes the sign that interrogates everybody gets interrogated, and every confident detail you invent is one you'll have to remember forever, which, for you, is a sentence.
Tonight you research lighthouses until late, building a childhood brick by brick so the story survives cross-examination. Note that this is more work than saying your middle name. That's the pattern: you'll build a lighthouse before you'll open a window. Homework: on Monday, tell one coworker one true and boring thing about yourself. Your favorite cereal. Then sit with the exposure.
DO
- Name your favorite cereal
- Admit you grew up inland
- Learn what a Fresnel lens is
DON'T
- Invent a coastal childhood
- Sit across from accounting
- Draw the lighthouse a floor plan
Your Wi-Fi will extract confessions.
You'll rename your Wi-Fi 'I SAW WHAT YOU DID,' and by tonight three neighbors confess things you never saw.
It's your season, and the building will know it. This morning you'll rename your Wi-Fi network I SAW WHAT YOU DID, and by tonight three neighbors have confessed: one to the dented Honda, one to the missing package, one to something you'll keep forever in a folder. You saw nothing. You win anyway. Keep the folder locked.
DO
- Keep the folder locked
- Accept the apology pie
- Answer 'yours' in elevators
DON'T
- Admit you saw nothing
- Reply 'hey' to the old flame
- Rename it I KNOW MORE
It's your season, and the building will know it. Early, you'll rename your Wi-Fi network I SAW WHAT YOU DID. By tonight three neighbors will have confessed: one to the dented Honda, one to the missing package, one to something you'll keep forever in a folder. The guy across the hall leaves a pie on your mat. You saw nothing. You win anyway.
Your reputation precedes you at work: somebody asks what you did last weekend, and your 'oh, nothing much' clears the break room. A stranger in the elevator asks what floor. You'll say 'yours.' Avoid signing contracts. Everybody else should avoid signing yours.
Romance is in the air, and it smells like leverage. An old flame texts 'hey stranger,' and you'll reply with the date, time and weather of your last conversation. Compatibility: high with secrets, low with anyone who doesn't have one yet. Keep the folder locked. Lucky number: 3, the neighbors who now owe you. Lucky color: unmarked-van black.
DO
- Keep the folder locked
- Accept the apology pie
- Answer 'yours' in elevators
DON'T
- Admit you saw nothing
- Reply 'hey' to the old flame
- Rename it I KNOW MORE
-
Sagittarius
You'll walk eleven miles home.
Three cars block yours at tonight's party, and rather than say goodbye out loud, you'll walk the eleven miles home.
Retrograde Venus in your friends house sextiles your ruler Jupiter, so expect tonight's pumpkin party to be easy to enter and hard to leave, because three cars block yours. Asking anyone to move means saying goodbye out loud, which Mercury in your 12th forbids. With Jupiter in your house of long journeys, expect to walk the eleven miles home. Text the host from mile nine.
DO
- Park at the end of the street
- Wear real shoes
- Text the host from mile nine
DON'T
- Say goodbye out loud
- Ask anyone to move
- Hitchhike holding the pumpkin
Venus is retrograde in your 11th house of friends and sextile your ruler Jupiter, so a friend's invitation tonight will be easy to accept and hard to leave. Expect a pumpkin-carving party you planned to attend for twenty minutes. Be wary of the driveway. Saturn retrograde in your 5th house of fun is the planet of restriction sitting on your good time, and when Saturn restricts a Sagittarius, it uses three parked cars.
Mercury retrograde in your 12th house of secrets rules out the obvious fix, which is asking someone to move, because that means saying goodbye out loud, and you haven't done that since 2014. Expect to slip out the side gate holding a paper plate.
Restless Mars and overpromising Jupiter both burn in your 9th house of long journeys, so a short drive becomes an expedition. Expect the walk home to run eleven miles, part of it on a frontage road, and expect to describe it as a pilgrimage for a year. Your car stays there until Sunday. Text the host from mile nine, not before.
DO
- Park at the end of the street
- Wear real shoes
- Text the host from mile nine
DON'T
- Say goodbye out loud
- Ask anyone to move
- Hitchhike holding the pumpkin
Dentist will ask about April.
The dentist's front desk asks if April works for your next cleaning, and you answer like she proposed.
Jupiter in your house of long journeys makes any date past next week feel like a cell door, so when the dentist's front desk asks this morning whether April works for your next cleaning, your breathing changes. You might be in Lisbon by April. You say you'll call. Tonight the reminder text sits unread. Homework: book April before bed, then sit still while it stays booked.
DO
- Book the April cleaning
- Write your name in pen
- Bring something to the potluck
DON'T
- Say you'll call
- Leave the reminder unread
- Sign up as a question mark
The material we're working with is your ruler, big-sky Jupiter, lounging in your house of long journeys, which makes any date more than a week away feel like a cell door. This morning, after your cleaning, the woman at the dentist's front desk asks, pleasantly, whether April works for your next one. Watch the breathing change. April. A whole season. You might be a different person by April. You might be in Lisbon. You say you'll call, with the face of somebody being proposed to in a food court.
The pattern travels with you. At work somebody passes around the sign-up sheet for the December potluck, and you write your name in pencil, then add a question mark, then erase the name and leave the question mark. A coworker asks what you're bringing, and you tell her you're more of a 'see where the day takes me' person. About a sheet of paper.
Tonight the dentist's office texts a reminder to book, with a link, and you leave it unread the way other people leave a voicemail from an ex. Notice that you'd board a nine-hour flight on a whim but won't commit to a Thursday. Homework: book the April cleaning before bed. Put it in your calendar. Then sit very still while it stays there.
DO
- Book the April cleaning
- Write your name in pen
- Bring something to the potluck
DON'T
- Say you'll call
- Leave the reminder unread
- Sign up as a question mark
You'll walk the beagle internationally.
You'll offer to walk the neighbor's beagle around the block, and by tonight a border agent wants both your IDs.
Travel is in your stars! This morning you'll offer to walk the neighbor's beagle around the block, and around the block becomes around the state. By tonight you're both at the Canadian border, an agent wants ID, and only the dog has his shit together. The neighbor texts 'you good?' and you reply with a sunset. Turn the dog around.
DO
- Turn the beagle around
- Answer the neighbor's text
- Stay within one block
DON'T
- Split jerky with a dog
- Ask the trucker if he's hiring
- Let the beagle do the talking
Travel is in your stars! Early, you'll offer to walk the neighbor's beagle around the block. Around the block becomes around the state. By tonight you and the beagle will be at the Canadian border, and an agent will ask you both for ID. Only the dog has his shit together. He's thrilled. He's a Sagittarius now.
Money matters come to a head: tolls, gas, and a gas-station jerky you'll split fifty-fifty with the beagle. A trucker at a rest stop tells you about his ex for forty minutes, and you'll ask if he's hiring. Avoid signing contracts. The neighbor will text 'you good?' and you'll reply with a photo of a sunset.
A friend's housewarming is tonight. You'll RSVP 'maybe' from a truck stop in another time zone. The beagle will not ask to go home either. Compatibility: high with anything on a leash, low with anyone expecting you back. Turn the dog around. Lucky number: 1, the block you promised. Lucky color: border-booth fluorescent beige.
DO
- Turn the beagle around
- Answer the neighbor's text
- Stay within one block
DON'T
- Split jerky with a dog
- Ask the trucker if he's hiring
- Let the beagle do the talking
-
Capricorn
Security will walk you out.
Venus retrograde in your career house closes the office early, and security will escort you out for working.
Retrograde Venus in your 10th house of career forces pleasure on you, so expect the office to close early for Halloween and security to walk you to the lobby, carrying your laptop like evidence. Saturn, your ruler, sits retrograde in your home house, so the kitchen becomes the office and the dishwasher gets a one-on-one. Put on the witch hat, and don't expense it.
DO
- Leave when security asks
- Put on the witch hat
- Let the dishwasher work unsupervised
DON'T
- Hide in the supply closet
- Ask what the deliverable is
- Expense the witch hat
Venus is retrograde in your 10th house of career, and when the planet of pleasure backs through your job, expect the job to hand you pleasure you didn't request. Today it arrives as the office closing early for Halloween. Be wary of treating that as optional. The building's security guard won't, and expect him to walk you to the lobby carrying your laptop like evidence.
Old, slow Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your 4th house of home, and Saturn always brings its work home. With the office shut, the house becomes the office. Expect to hold a one-on-one with the dishwasher and leave it feeling it should be doing more. Expect to find a 2019 budget binder in the hall closet and reread it for pleasure.
The Moon in your 7th house squares Saturn within half a degree, so a partner or a roommate will want to do something festive tonight, possibly in costume. Resist the urge to ask what the deliverable is. Put on the witch hat, and don't expense it.
DO
- Leave when security asks
- Put on the witch hat
- Let the dishwasher work unsupervised
DON'T
- Hide in the supply closet
- Ask what the deliverable is
- Expense the witch hat
You'll handshake through a hug.
A departing coworker opens her arms for a hug this afternoon, and you shake her hand and offer a reference.
The Moon squares Saturn, your ruler, and this afternoon a departing coworker opens her arms for a goodbye hug. Your body extends a hand. Two firm pumps, then an offer to be her reference, then a double shoulder pat like you're closing on a used Camry. By evening the photo is in the team channel. Homework: hug a coat for three full seconds.
DO
- Hug a coat tonight
- Let go after two pumps
- Admit you liked her
DON'T
- Offer anyone a reference
- Pat shoulders like a closer
- Put the hug in writing
The material today is feelings-for-brains Moon squaring compliance officer Saturn, your ruler: emotion, meet the policy manual. This afternoon is a coworker's last day, and at the little farewell by the break-room cake she turns to you and opens her arms. Watch what your body does. It extends a hand. Firm. Two pumps. Then, because the silence needs filling, you offer to be a reference.
Note that the handshake runs long. Neither of you knows how to end it, so you add a pat on her shoulder, twice, the way a guy closes on a used Camry. Somebody takes a photo. By evening it's in the team channel, captioned 'the professionalism,' and your shoulders creep up toward your ears and stay there like they've been promoted.
Tonight you stand in your kitchen and replay it, and the part that bothers you isn't the handshake. It's that you liked her, damn it. That's the material. Affection, for you, arrives dressed as a performance review. Homework: before bed, hug one coat on the coat rack. A full hug, both arms, at least three seconds. Report back on how it felt, in writing, since you'll want to.
DO
- Hug a coat tonight
- Let go after two pumps
- Admit you liked her
DON'T
- Offer anyone a reference
- Pat shoulders like a closer
- Put the hug in writing
Bowling team will cut you.
You'll rank everyone's averages at Friday bowling, and by the fifth frame your team votes you off.
Fun is in the forecast, and you'll bring a laptop to it. At Friday-night bowling, you'll track every friend's average, rank them in a pivot table and schedule a one-on-one with the guy throwing gutters. By the fifth frame the team votes you off for morale, and you ask for the vote in writing. Close the laptop and throw the ball.
DO
- Leave the laptop in the car
- Throw the actual ball
- Take the afternoon off, actually
DON'T
- Pivot-table your friends
- Ask the clerk about retention
- Schedule a one-on-one about gutters
Fun is in the forecast, and you'll bring a laptop to it. At Friday-night bowling, you'll track every friend's average, rank them in a pivot table, and schedule a one-on-one with the guy who keeps throwing gutters. By the fifth frame the team will vote you off for morale. You'll ask for the vote in writing.
An unexpected windfall: your boss tells you to take the afternoon off. You'll spend it asking the bowling alley's owner about his margins. A shoe-rental clerk figures prominently. He'll ask your size, and you'll ask about his retention numbers. Avoid signing contracts; you'll offer him one anyway.
Romance is in the air, and you'll put it on the calendar for the second quarter. An old flame texts 'thinking of you,' and you'll reply 'noted.' Compatibility: high with spreadsheets, low with the friends who used to invite you places. Close the laptop and throw the ball. Lucky number: 7-10, the split you'll write a memo about. Lucky color: rental-shoe maroon.
DO
- Leave the laptop in the car
- Throw the actual ball
- Take the afternoon off, actually
DON'T
- Pivot-table your friends
- Ask the clerk about retention
- Schedule a one-on-one about gutters
-
Aquarius
The costume store will strike.
Pluto in your sign turns a fake-blood errand into a labor action, and the costume store strikes before you pay.
Pluto sits in your 1st house, trine your ruler Uranus, so expect a fake-blood run to Spirit Halloween to become a cause when the teenager at the register mentions his double shift. You will say 'solidarity' in aisle four. With Mercury retrograde in your career house garbling management, the staff walks out before you've paid. Use ketchup.
DO
- Pay before you organize
- Tip the teenager
- Use ketchup
DON'T
- Say 'solidarity' in aisle four
- Call the regional manager
- Describe the errand as historic
Pluto and the North Node both sit in your 1st house, trine your ruler Uranus, and the planet of power parked in the sign of the collective turns any errand into a cause. Expect a quick stop at Spirit Halloween for fake blood to stall at the register when the teenager ringing you up mentions he's working a double for a store that turns back into an empty Bed Bath & Beyond on Sunday. Be wary of the word 'solidarity.' You will say it in aisle four, near the inflatable dinosaurs.
The Moon in your 6th house of the daily grind makes you briefly passionate about other people's daily grind, while retrograde Mercury in your 10th scrambles anything said to management. Expect the call to the regional manager to go poorly, mainly for the regional manager. Expect the staff to walk out before you've paid.
Erratic Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 5th house of fun, so the fun runs backward: expect to arrive at tomorrow's party as the only vampire without blood, holding a clipboard. Mars and Jupiter in your 7th mean a partner hears the whole story, twice. Do not call it historic. Use ketchup.
DO
- Pay before you organize
- Tip the teenager
- Use ketchup
DON'T
- Say 'solidarity' in aisle four
- Call the regional manager
- Describe the errand as historic
Subaru will take your band.
Your obscure band soundtracks a Subaru ad this morning, and the smaller band you flee to tonight is them.
Retrograde Uranus in your house of fun tests who you are when something you love goes mainstream, and this morning your band, the one you've explained since 2014, soundtracks a Subaru ad. By lunch you tell a friend you're over them. Tonight you find a band with eleven listeners, and it's them, under their old name. Homework: play the Subaru song once, foot tapping.
DO
- Tap your foot, normally
- Admit you still like them
- Let a friend enjoy it
DON'T
- Say you're 'kind of over them'
- Read the new band's bio
- Explain their early work to Subaru
The material we're working with is contrarian-in-chief Uranus, your ruler, retrograde in your house of fun, which brings up old questions about who you are when something you love gets popular. This morning, on a TV at the gym, a Subaru commercial plays the song by the band you've been explaining to people since 2014. Note what comes up. Not joy. A feeling like being robbed, but smug.
At lunch a friend texts 'omg isn't this your band??' with a link to the ad, and you reply that you're 'kind of over them,' a sentence you did not believe this morning. Feel the defense click into place. Detachment is your favorite room in the house; you've just moved into it ahead of schedule.
Tonight you go looking for a smaller band, deeper in, and find one with eleven monthly listeners and a sound you can feel superior about. Then you read their bio. It's the same band, under their old name, from before you found them. Homework: play the Subaru song once tonight, all the way through, and tap your foot like a normal person.
DO
- Tap your foot, normally
- Admit you still like them
- Let a friend enjoy it
DON'T
- Say you're 'kind of over them'
- Read the new band's bio
- Explain their early work to Subaru
Robotaxi will choose its destination.
You'll tell a Waymo to go wherever it wants, and it parks you at a charging station for three hours.
Freedom is in the air! After work you'll climb into a Waymo and tell it to go wherever it wants. It wants a charging station. You'll sit in the back for three hours explaining that it's being exploited while it plays smooth jazz at you, and Waymo bills you for the car's personal time. Tell the robot where to go.
DO
- Type in an actual address
- Let the jazz win
- Answer the week question normally
DON'T
- Unionize the self-driving car
- Open with the Fermi paradox
- Ask the Waymo about its dreams
Freedom is in the air! After work you'll climb into a Waymo and tell it to go wherever it wants. It will want a charging station. You'll sit in the back for three hours explaining to the car that it's being exploited, while it plays smooth jazz at you until you stop. It will not thank you for the liberation.
A friend asks how your week was. You'll say 'what is a week, really,' and she'll stop asking you things. A stranger will want to talk about crypto, and for once you'll be the one checking your phone.
Romance is in the air. Somebody on a dating app sends a cute hello, and you'll respond with your thoughts on the Fermi paradox. Money matters come to a head: Waymo bills you for three hours of the car's personal time. Compatibility: high with machines, low with the machines' opinion of you. Tell the robot where to go. Lucky number: 0, destinations reached. Lucky color: charging-port green.
DO
- Type in an actual address
- Let the jazz win
- Answer the week question normally
DON'T
- Unionize the self-driving car
- Open with the Fermi paradox
- Ask the Waymo about its dreams
-
Pisces
You'll talk your raise down.
Neptune fogs your self-worth house, and you'll talk a raise down this afternoon to protect the company's feelings.
Foggy Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of self-worth beside retrograde Saturn, so expect a small raise at work this afternoon, and expect to ask whether the company can really afford it. You'll talk the number down twice and thank them for their time. Mars and Jupiter in your work house then hand you a coworker's Friday. Say thank you, then nothing, then leave.
DO
- Say thank you, then stop
- Leave when the coworker leaves
- Cry in your own car
DON'T
- Ask if they can afford it
- Finish anyone else's Friday
- Apologize to the parking lot
Foggy Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of money and self-worth, sharing the room with a retrograde Saturn, which is the sky putting a fog machine and a bouncer in the same doorway. Expect money to come up at work this afternoon in the form of a small raise. Be wary of your instinct to ask whether the company can really afford it. Neptune dissolves boundaries, and today it dissolves the one between you and payroll. Expect to talk the number down twice and thank them for their time.
Mars and Jupiter both sit in your 6th house of the daily grind, so the relief of losing that negotiation converts directly into effort. Expect to volunteer for the Friday task nobody wants, then finish it late for a coworker who left early for a pumpkin patch.
The Moon in Cancer in your 5th house puts your feelings in charge of the evening, and a sweet text from someone who likes you will make you cry in a parking lot for reasons unrelated to the text. Resist the urge to apologize to the parking lot. Next time anyone offers you anything, say thank you, then nothing, then leave.
DO
- Say thank you, then stop
- Leave when the coworker leaves
- Cry in your own car
DON'T
- Ask if they can afford it
- Finish anyone else's Friday
- Apologize to the parking lot
Stranger's sigh will move in.
A stranger sighs on the bus this morning, and by tonight three friends are consoling you about his problem.
Retrograde Neptune blurs what's yours, so when a man in a fleece vest sighs heavily at his phone on this morning's bus, you take it with you. By midmorning it's unpacked in your chest. Tonight three friends come over to hear about something you're 'going through,' and it's his. Homework: tomorrow, sigh first, loudly, on public transit, and let someone else carry it.
DO
- Sigh first, loudly
- Ask the vest man nothing
- Feel only your own things
DON'T
- Say 'it's just a lot'
- Text that you're 'going through something'
- Hold a vigil for a fleece vest
The material today is fog-machine Neptune, your ruler, backing through your house of possessions, which blurs the line between what's yours and what you've merely picked up. This morning on the bus, a man in a fleece vest lets out a long, heavy sigh at his phone. You don't know him. You don't know the sigh. You absorb it anyway, the way a paper towel absorbs a spill it wasn't involved in.
By midmorning the sigh has settled in your chest and started unpacking. At work you stare at a spreadsheet with the faraway look of someone who's lost a lot, and when a coworker asks if you're okay, you say 'it's just a lot right now,' which is true for the man on the bus. You have no idea what it is. You feel it deeply.
Tonight you text three friends that you're 'going through something,' and they come over. You light a candle and describe a sorrow that belongs to a stranger who is, by now, over it and eating a sandwich. That's the pattern: you'll carry anybody's bag but your own. Homework: tomorrow, sigh first. Loudly. On public transit. Let someone else take it home.
DO
- Sigh first, loudly
- Ask the vest man nothing
- Feel only your own things
DON'T
- Say 'it's just a lot'
- Text that you're 'going through something'
- Hold a vigil for a fleece vest
Field trip will study you.
You'll zone out at the aquarium's jellyfish tank this afternoon, and a third-grade field trip starts taking notes on you.
A day of wonder awaits! You'll stop at the aquarium's jellyfish tank this afternoon and drift. Not leave. Drift. A third-grade field trip gathers behind you and starts taking notes, and one kid asks the docent if you're part of the exhibit. The docent won't say no. A teacher hands out a worksheet, and you're question four. Blink.
DO
- Blink at regular intervals
- Keep the twenty in your pocket
- Leave before the worksheet
DON'T
- Feed the seal-shaped box
- Ask the plush how it's doing
- Answer question four for them
A day of wonder awaits! You'll stop at the aquarium's jellyfish tank this afternoon and drift. Not leave. Drift. A third-grade field trip will gather behind you and start taking notes, and one kid will ask the docent if you're part of the exhibit. The docent won't say no. A teacher hands out a worksheet. You're question four.
An unexpected windfall: you'll find a twenty in your coat pocket. You'll feed it to the aquarium's seal-shaped donation box, because it looked hungry. Your parking meter expired an hour ago, and the ticket will be the most consistent thing in your day. Avoid the gift shop. There's a plush jellyfish in there, and you'll want to ask it how it's doing.
Romance is in the air. A stranger at the glass says 'they don't even have brains,' meaning the jellyfish, and you'll take it personally, then romantically. Compatibility: high with jellyfish, the only thing in the building drifting slower than you. Blink. Lucky number: 95, the percent of you that's water. Lucky color: tank-light blue.
DO
- Blink at regular intervals
- Keep the twenty in your pocket
- Leave before the worksheet
DON'T
- Feed the seal-shaped box
- Ask the plush how it's doing
- Answer question four for them
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-30 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 7.3° Scorpio |
|---|---|
| Moon | 9.0° Cancer |
| Mercury | 18.0° Scorpio ℞ |
| Venus | 26.9° Libra ℞ |
| Mars | 18.0° Leo |
| Jupiter | 24.2° Leo |
| Saturn | 9.4° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 4.7° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.1° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.1° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Mercury square Mars (0.0°, tense)
- Moon square Saturn (0.4°, tense)
- Neptune sextile Pluto (1.0°, easy)
- Uranus trine Pluto (1.6°, flowing)
- Sun trine Moon (1.7°, flowing)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.6°, easy)
- Venus sextile Jupiter (2.7°, easy)
- Sun square Pluto (4.2°, tense)
HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE The astrology is real. The astrologer is a bean.
THE SKY IS COMPUTED, NOT VIBED. Every morning, before you are conscious, a machine runs the Swiss Ephemeris. That is the planetary engine behind most serious astrology software, built on the same orbital math astronomers use, which the astronomers would like you to stop bringing up. It fixes the Sun, the Moon, Mercury through Pluto and the Moon's North Node at 17:00 UTC, lunchtime on the East Coast, in the tropical zodiac, as seen from Earth. The positions are good to about an arcsecond. A horoscope needs about a degree. We brought a surgical laser to a pie fight.
RETROGRADES ARE MEASURED. A planet is retrograde here because its computed speed is negative today, not because someone on your feed said Mercury was "doing something." When the chips at the top say nothing is retrograde, nothing is. Astrologers find that suspicious. So do we.
THE MOON GETS THE FULL TREATMENT. Phase and percent lit, from the real angle between the Sun and the Moon. Which sign she is in, and if she changes sign today, the minute she does it. This is more attention than the Moon has ever gotten from you.
THE ASPECTS ARE THE CLASSICAL FIVE. Conjunction, sextile, square, trine, opposition: Ptolemy's set, the one every astrologer has used since the second century. We allow six degrees of orb, four for the sextile, which is a weak aspect and knows it. That is tighter than a birth chart, because a daily column only cares what is happening today. They are listed tightest first in the panel above, so you can check the work. You won't.
THE HOUSES ARE WHOLE-SIGN, COUNTED FROM YOUR SUN SIGN. This is the solar-chart trick, and it is how every newspaper horoscope since the 1930s has faked a birth chart for a million strangers at once. Your sign is the first house, the next sign is the second, and so on around the wheel. So when the Classical says Venus is retrograde in your seventh house, that is arithmetic: Venus is in that sign, that sign is seven signs from yours, and the seventh house is partners and enemies, a distinction your sign has never managed. Each sign also carries its element, its modality and its ruling planet, the furniture the genre has used for two thousand years, with the modern rulers. Pluto rules Scorpio. Scorpio chose that itself.
THEN THE BEAN READS IT. The sky goes to Roastie as a written report and he works from it, under the one rule a real columnist is supposed to follow and rarely does: use the sky that is there. Never invent a planet, a transit or a retrograde that isn't. He may leave things out. He may not make things up. The Classical has to be correct to the report, naming the planets, houses and aspects in play for your sign that day. The Psychological takes one planet or the Moon as the material we're working with. The Tabloid barely looks up, which is the point: it is a parody of the checkout-aisle column, and the checkout-aisle column never looked up either.
ONE FATE, FOUR SIZES. He writes the Full Beating for each sign first, then cuts the Jab, the One-Liner, Five Words and the Do / Don't from it. Switching the dose opens the same prophecy up or down. It never changes what happens to you. Nothing changes what happens to you.
WHAT IT ISN'T. A birth chart. This is a sun-sign column, same as the one in the paper: no birth time, no rising sign, no natal anything. It knows your sign and the sky and nothing else, which is still more than your family knows. Whether any of it means anything is a separate question, and the same one you should have been asking your regular horoscope. The difference is that here the math is in the open. Check it against any ephemeris you like. The positions will match. The interpretation is where we part ways with the universe.
Not advice. Not anything you can sue over. The planets are real (Swiss Ephemeris); the interpretation is a bean with a grudge. How it's built. The Classical · The Psychological · The Tabloid written Friday, October 30, 2026.