FILED FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2026

ROAST-O-SCOPE

Libra season
First Quarter in Capricorn
Moon into Capricorn today
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.

THE DOSE

One paragraph. The reading, compressed.

Aries

Mar 21 – Apr 19 · Fire · ruled by Mars
Bernadette will confiscate your pedal.

At 7:14 your clay hits the ceiling fan, and Bernadette confiscates your pedal for the rest of the night.
Mars sits in your 5th house of creativity, so you hit the 7:00 pottery class like a battering ram, and at 7:14 your clay clips the ceiling fan and lands in a stranger's tote bag. Then Mars trines retrograde Saturn in your 1st, exact, and Bernadette unplugs your pedal and drops it in her purse. Ninety minutes of pinching by hand. Let the clay win.
DO
Pinch the pot slowly
Let the clay win
Leave the pedal in her purse
DON'T
Touch the pedal again
Ask for the tote-bag clay
Arm-wrestle Bernadette for it
Your hothead ruler Mars is parked in Leo in your 5th house of creativity and fun you can't afford, so tonight you walk into the 7:00 wheel-throwing class at Clay Ground Studio without reading the waiver. You will hit the pedal like it owes you rent. At 7:14 two pounds of wet clay leave the wheel, clip the ceiling fan and land in a stranger's tote bag.

Here's the problem, sparky. Saturn is retrograde in your 1st house, and Mars trines it at an orb of 0.2 degrees, the tightest aspect in the sky. That's the cosmos installing brakes on a shopping cart. At 7:20 Bernadette, an instructor with the forearms of a shipbuilder, unplugs your pedal and drops it in her purse. You will spend ninety minutes pinching a pot by hand, the longest you have held still since the delivery room.

Neptune is retrograde in your sign too, and the Moon in your 10th squares it, so by 9:00 the fog rolls in: Bernadette puts your lopsided little pot on the front shelf, and you mistake it for praise. It's a warning label. Your order for the day: let the clay win, and leave that pedal in Bernadette's purse where Saturn wants it.
DO
Pinch the pot slowly
Let the clay win
Leave the pedal in her purse
DON'T
Touch the pedal again
Ask for the tote-bag clay
Arm-wrestle Bernadette for it
Update will freeze at ninety-seven.

Your library laptop freezes its update at ninety-seven percent, and by 9:52 Marjorie has shushed your threats three times.
Disappointed cosmic vice principal Saturn is retrograde in your sign, and at 9:05 your laptop freezes its update at ninety-seven percent in the public library. By 9:52 you've threatened it out loud and earned three shushes from Marjorie at the reference desk. At 10:40 it finishes, then announces a second update. Sit on your hands until the bar is done.
DO
Sit on your hands
Apologize to Marjorie twice
Let the bar finish
DON'T
Blow into the vents
Count down out loud
Offer the laptop a fight outside
The material we're working with today: disappointed cosmic vice principal Saturn is retrograde in your sign and trining Mars, your ruler, which is clinical shorthand for 'forced to wait, and fully armed about it.' At 9:05, at a table in the public library, your laptop will begin a mandatory update and freeze at ninety-seven percent. You will experience this as a challenge to a duel.

By 9:30 you'll have closed the lid, reopened it, blown into the vents and told it, out loud, that you've beaten tougher machines than it. Marjorie at the reference desk will shush you at 9:34, 9:41 and 9:52, and the third shush will be quieter and sadder, which is worse. A middle schooler will change tables. We call this projection: the progress bar is just the first thing all week that refused to go faster for you.

At 10:40 it will hit one hundred, reboot and calmly announce a second update. Somewhere in that reading room your inner child is holding a fork near an outlet. Today's work is to sit with the discomfort. Literally sit. On your hands, if necessary, until a little gray bar does the one thing you have never once done in your life, which is finish.
DO
Sit on your hands
Apologize to Marjorie twice
Let the bar finish
DON'T
Blow into the vents
Count down out loud
Offer the laptop a fight outside
You'll seize the speed-dating bell.

You seize the speed-dating bell at 7:31, and by 8:05 all twelve singles pair off, united against you.
Romance is in the air at 7:20, and it smells like hotel-bar carpet. Four minutes per speed date is a geological era to you, so you snatch organizer Denise's brass bell and ring it every ninety seconds. By 8:05 all twelve singles have paired off with each other, united by hating your guts. Return the bell to Denise. Do not ring it on the way.
DO
Return Denise's bell tonight
Let the sandwich guy live
Take four whole minutes
DON'T
Sign anything with limited spots
Time your friends' stories
Ring it during your apology
A stranger will cut in front of you in the 12:15 sandwich line, and you will spend the whole afternoon drafting the speech you'll never give him, out loud, at your desk, while Janet from payroll pretends to be on a call. By 4:00 you will need to win something. Anything. The universe, a known enabler, is listening.

Romance is in the air, and at 7:20 it smells like hotel-bar carpet. You'll enter Friday Night Speed Dating because the flyer said only twelve spots, and twelve is a number you can beat. Four minutes per date is a geological era to you, so at 7:31 you'll snatch the little brass bell from clipboard-clutching organizer Denise and ring it every ninety seconds. By 8:05 all twelve singles will have paired off with each other, united by their shared hatred of your guts.

A Leo figures prominently, mostly by laughing. At 9:30 your friends will ask what you won tonight, and you'll say 'the bell,' because you kept the goddamn bell. Return it to Denise. Do not ring it on the way. Lucky number: 90, the seconds anyone gets before you lose interest. Lucky color: hotel-carpet maroon.
DO
Return Denise's bell tonight
Let the sandwich guy live
Take four whole minutes
DON'T
Sign anything with limited spots
Time your friends' stories
Ring it during your apology
Taurus

Apr 20 – May 20 · Earth · ruled by Venus
Sofa will become your door.

Your March sofa wedges into the doorframe at 2:20, and by 8:30 it's simply your door now.
Mars and Jupiter in your 4th house of home shove something enormous at your front door, and at 2:20 your March sofa jams in the frame. Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 7th house of contracts, so you finally read the fine print: threshold delivery. Luis and Big Tony leave. By 8:30 you've stopped climbing over it and started living on it. Declare the sofa the door.
DO
Read the fine print now
Climb in feet first
Charge the neighbors admission
DON'T
Call the store
Move for the neighbors
Let Big Tony have your spot
Mars and Jupiter are both in Leo in your 4th house of home, which is astrology for something enormous is coming through your front door by force. At 2:20 the velvet sofa you ordered in March arrives with two delivery men, Luis and a larger man everyone calls Big Tony, and it will not fit through the frame. They try three angles. You try none, because you are a bull, and bulls supervise.

Your ruler Venus is retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house of contracts, squaring Mars, so you finally read the paperwork you signed in March without blinking. Two words: threshold delivery. By 3:05 the sofa is legally home, jammed in your doorway like a cork, and Luis and Big Tony are legally on the highway. Venus squares Pluto too, so you won't call the store. Calling would mean the store has power over you.

By 6:00 you will be entering your own home by climbing over the back of the sofa. By 8:30 you'll stop climbing, because the doorway sofa turns out to be the comfiest seat you've ever owned, and it gets a cross-breeze. The neighbors will step over your ankles to reach the stairs, and you will not move them. Your order for the day: declare the sofa the door, and charge admission.
DO
Read the fine print now
Climb in feet first
Charge the neighbors admission
DON'T
Call the store
Move for the neighbors
Let Big Tony have your spot
Someone will eat your lasagna.

Your labeled lasagna vanishes from the office fridge at 12:30, and you reopen that fridge fourteen times expecting it back.
Least-reliable-houseguest-in-the-solar-system Venus, your ruler, is retrograde, and at 12:30 your Sharpie-labeled lasagna vanishes from the office fridge, its rinsed container left behind like a calling card. By 2:00 you've reopened that fridge fourteen times, as if it might come home. At 3:15 Gavin walks by holding a fork. Stop opening the empty fridge.
DO
Label it with your legal name
Bake a backup lasagna
Let Gavin take the stairs
DON'T
Open the fridge again
Dust the container for prints
Ask Gavin to open his mouth
The material we're working with today: least-reliable-houseguest-in-the-solar-system Venus, your ruler, is retrograde, and she always takes something on the way out. At 12:30 you'll open the office fridge and find the lasagna you labeled in Sharpie, TAURUS DO NOT TOUCH, gone. The container will be rinsed and set back on the shelf like a calling card.

Developmental psychologists say infants master object permanence at around eight months. You'll spend the afternoon un-mastering it. By 2:00 you'll have reopened that fridge fourteen times, each with the serene face of someone expecting the lasagna to have simply come home on its own. At 3:15 Gavin from accounting will walk past holding a fork, and you will hold eye contact until he takes the stairs.

Mars and Jupiter are both in your house of home tonight, so at 7:00 you'll bake an entire second lasagna, a nine-by-thirteen grudge, and eat a third of it standing at the counter like it owes you money. In session we call this a corrective emotional experience. Tonight's order: label tomorrow's portion with your full legal name, and stop opening a fridge you know damn well is empty.
DO
Label it with your legal name
Bake a backup lasagna
Let Gavin take the stairs
DON'T
Open the fridge again
Dust the container for prints
Ask Gavin to open his mouth
Buffet will invent a limit.

You hit the buffet at 4:29, and by 9:15 Doug invents a time limit featuring your photo.
An early-bird buffet coupon arrives at 11:10, and you skip lunch like an athlete in training. At 4:29 you take the booth by the carving station and simply do not leave. By 9:15, manager Doug has laminated a brand-new rule, ALL YOU CAN EAT, NINETY MINUTES, and pinned your photo to it like a wanted poster. Leave before Doug calls the regional office.
DO
Skip lunch for the coupon
Claim the carving-station booth
Leave before Doug calls regional
DON'T
Answer the Virgo's text
Loosen your belt publicly
Autograph your wanted poster
An unexpected windfall arrives at 11:10: a coupon taped to your door by the Hometown Harvest Buffet, early-bird pricing before 4:30. You'll clock it the way a lion clocks a limping gazelle. You will skip lunch. You will decline a breath mint. You are in training, and the event is Friday.

At 4:29 you'll take a booth by the carving station, and you will not rise again except to refill. By 7:00 you'll be on plate eleven, pacing yourself like a marathoner who is also the course. At 9:15 clip-on-tied, two-weeks-from-retirement manager Doug will laminate the hell out of a new sign by the register, ALL YOU CAN EAT, NINETY MINUTES, NO EXCEPTIONS, and pin your photo to it like a wanted poster.

A Virgo figures prominently, texting 'are you alive' at 8:00. You've never been more alive. Compatibility tonight: high with the soft-serve machine, low with your belt. Leave before Doug calls the regional office. Lucky number: 11, the plates. Lucky color: gravy-boat beige.
DO
Skip lunch for the coupon
Claim the carving-station booth
Leave before Doug calls regional
DON'T
Answer the Virgo's text
Loosen your belt publicly
Autograph your wanted poster
Gemini

May 21 – Jun 20 · Air · ruled by Mercury
Colleen will ask for more.

At 11:05 you send Colleen's bangs gossip to all 212 coworkers, and at 11:11 she demands the rest.
Mercury, your ruler, is in secretive Scorpio in your 6th house of work, so at 10:40 you learn why Colleen got bangs. Mercury squares Jupiter in your 3rd house of texting, and at 11:05 your four hundred words go to #all-staff instead of cousin Danny. Two hundred and twelve readers. At 11:11 Colleen replies: 'Keep going.' Deliver the second half.
DO
Deliver the second half
Let Colleen do voices
Pin the diagram
DON'T
Apologize in the thread
Rush the dentist part
Ask HR to rate it
Your ruler Mercury is in Scorpio, the sign of secrets, in your 6th house of the daily grind, with Venus sharing the cubicle. So at 10:40, by the printer, you will learn exactly why Colleen from accounts payable got bangs. You will not sit on this. You have never sat on anything in your life, including chairs.

Mercury squares Jupiter in your 3rd house of texting, which is the cosmic equivalent of handing a megaphone to a parrot. At 11:05 you type four hundred words about the bangs into what you believe is your chat with cousin Danny. It is #all-staff. Two hundred and twelve people. Uranus, retrograde in your own sign, makes sure you don't notice for six minutes, during which you add a voice memo and a diagram.

Colleen replies at 11:11, in front of all 212: 'Keep going. Get to the part with the dentist.' Saturn is retrograde in your 11th house of friends, so by 2:00 an office that ignored you all year is refreshing the channel like it's a season finale, and you will mistake an audience for friendship, which for you was always the same damn thing. Your order for the day: deliver the second half, and let Colleen do the voices.
DO
Deliver the second half
Let Colleen do voices
Pin the diagram
DON'T
Apologize in the thread
Rush the dentist part
Ask HR to rate it
Hector will side against you.

At 7:56 Hector the super overhears you debating yourself in the stairwell, and he sides with the other you.
Sideways-spinning weirdo Uranus is retrograde in your sign, and at 7:50 you start debating yourself in stairwell B about whether you're a morning person. At 7:56 Hector the super steps out of the boiler room and rules for the other guy, without saying which one. By lunch, both of you are texting him for an appeal. Accept the verdict.
DO
Accept Hector's ruling
Take the elevator
Pick one opinion by noon
DON'T
Demand a recount
Retell it four times
Appeal to a higher super
Sideways-spinning weirdo Uranus is retrograde in your sign, and Mercury, your ruler, is squaring Jupiter, an aspect we'd describe clinically as too many words backed by too much confidence. At 7:50 this morning, in stairwell B of your building, you'll open a calm discussion with yourself about whether you are, in fact, a morning person. By the third landing it will have rebuttals.

At 7:56 Hector the super will step out of the boiler room, having heard all of it, and say, 'Nah, the other guy's right.' He will not specify which guy. Internal Family Systems therapy holds that every psyche is made of parts. Yours have formed a debate team, and today, for the first time, they get a judge in a Carhartt jacket.

Mercury in your house of daily grind means you'll retell Hector's ruling at work four times before 11:00, and in each version a different you wins. By lunch both of you will be texting Hector, separately, lobbying for an appeal. He will leave you both on read. Today's instruction: accept the verdict, and take the elevator like a person with one opinion.
DO
Accept Hector's ruling
Take the elevator
Pick one opinion by noon
DON'T
Demand a recount
Retell it four times
Appeal to a higher super
Pollster will count you twice.

Marcy's 6:30 survey logs you as two households, and the city approves a dog park and parking lot, same spot.
At 6:30 pollster Marcy calls about the dog park on Elm. You answer strongly in favor, then, without hanging up, strongly against, as your deeper-voiced 'roommate.' Marcy is a professional: by 7:45 she logs you as two households, and the council approves a dog park and a parking lot on the same half-acre. When Marcy calls back to verify, let only one of you answer.
DO
Take Marcy's five-minute survey
Use the deeper voice sparingly
Let only one of you verify
DON'T
Review the lobby carpet twice
Comment on Nextdoor twice
Run for council as twins
Friday's work forecast is chatter. At 10:40 you'll tell the break room you love the new lobby carpet, and at 10:52 you'll tell the elevator it looks like a dentist's waiting room in hell. Both audiences will believe you. Both will quote you by lunch, and both of you will deny it.

At 6:30 a stranger will call: eleven-dollar-an-hour pollster Marcy from Tri-County Research, with five quick minutes on the proposed dog park on Elm. You'll answer strongly in favor. Then, without hanging up, you'll answer strongly against, in a slightly deeper voice, as your 'roommate.' Marcy is a professional. By 7:45 she'll have logged you as two households, and the council, citing a two-to-zero mandate, will approve a dog park and a parking lot on the same half-acre.

By 9:00 Nextdoor will be screaming WHO ARE THESE TWO PEOPLE, and you'll comment twice. Compatibility: high with yourself, low with yourself. When Marcy calls back to verify, let only one of you answer. Lucky number: 2, obviously, you hack. Lucky color: whichever one the other you hates.
DO
Take Marcy's five-minute survey
Use the deeper voice sparingly
Let only one of you verify
DON'T
Review the lobby carpet twice
Comment on Nextdoor twice
Run for council as twins
Cancer

Jun 21 – Jul 22 · Water · ruled by Moon
You'll pay to keep everything.

Inga the organizer arrives at 10:00, cries over your glitter card by 1:34, and you pay $340 to keep everything.
The Moon, your ruler, enters businesslike Capricorn in your 7th house of contracts, so at 10:00 you hire Inga to clear your spare room. Then the Moon squares Neptune, and by 1:34 Inga is sobbing over a 1998 glitter birthday card while you make her a grilled cheese. Jupiter in your 2nd house brings a $340 invoice and zero empty bags. Keep everything, including Inga.
DO
Hire Inga at 10:00
Make her a grilled cheese
Frame the glitter card twice
DON'T
Open the 1997 box
Let one bag leave
File Inga under misc
Your ruler the Moon slides into cold, clipboard-carrying Capricorn today and lands in your 7th house of partners and contracts, which means you hire a professional. At 10:00 Inga from Clear Horizons Organizing arrives at your spare room with forty contractor bags and the emotional range of a filing cabinet. You will hand her a box labeled 'misc. 1997 to present' and step back like it might go off.

Then the Moon squares Neptune at an orb of 0.4 degrees, the fog-machine aspect, and Neptune dissolves everything it touches, including licensed professionals. At 1:30 Inga pulls out a birthday card a third-grader named Dashiell made you in 1998, glitter still live. By 1:34 she is sobbing on your futon and you are making her a grilled cheese. Moon sextile Venus guarantees you both enjoy it.

Mars and Jupiter sit in Leo in your 2nd house of money, and Jupiter never met a number it didn't want to make bigger. At 4:00 Inga invoices you $340 for six hours, and you will pay it, plus a tip, plus a framed copy of the glitter card so she has one too. Not one bag leaves the house. Your order for the day: keep everything, including Inga.
DO
Hire Inga at 10:00
Make her a grilled cheese
Frame the glitter card twice
DON'T
Open the 1997 box
Let one bag leave
File Inga under misc
Dana will receive the photo.

Dana cancels at 3:20, and at 8:40 she gets a photo of the empty chair: 'saved you a plate.'
Your moody landlord the Moon slides into Capricorn this morning, and at 3:20 Dana cancels dinner with 'rain check?' You answer 'No worries!!', two exclamation points of pure war, then cook pot roast for two and eat both plates facing the empty chair. At 8:40 Dana gets the photo: 'saved you a plate, no worries!!' Keep the chair out of frame.
DO
Wrap the leftovers
Blow out the saved candle
Eat the second plate quietly
DON'T
Use two exclamation points
Set the second place
Photograph the chair from three angles
Your ruler and the sky's moodiest landlord, the Moon, moves into Capricorn this morning and squares Neptune, the clinical way of saying your feelings will be frozen and foggy at once, like a windshield in February. At 3:20 Dana will cancel tonight's dinner with 'rain check?' You'll reply 'No worries!!' Two exclamation points. In your dialect, that's a formal declaration of war.

You'll go home and cook the whole dinner anyway: pot roast, two servings, cloth napkins, the candle you've been saving since 2022. You'll set the second place. You'll eat both plates, slowly, facing the empty chair, like a perfume ad where the model has been stood up by the ocean. In session we'd call this a bid for connection. A jury would call it staging.

At 8:40 Dana will receive a photo of the empty chair, captioned 'saved you a plate, no worries!!' She'll read it in the bath and feel watched. The Moon's sextile to Venus offers you an easy exit tonight, one plain text saying you were bummed. You will not take it. Tonight's order: wrap the leftovers and keep the chair out of frame.
DO
Wrap the leftovers
Blow out the saved candle
Eat the second plate quietly
DON'T
Use two exclamation points
Set the second place
Photograph the chair from three angles
You'll adopt the visiting plumber.

Hank comes to fix a nineteen-minute drip, and by 6:00 his wife is begging you to give him back.
Plumber Hank arrives at 10:00 for a nineteen-minute drip, which is nowhere near enough time to mother a grown man. By 1:30 he's in your guest cardigan; by 3:15 he has tomorrow's lunch, labeled with a heart, and a curfew. At 6:00 his wife Lorraine calls to ask, with real fear, if she can have him back. Release Hank. Wave until the van is gone.
DO
Let Hank leave
Freeze the extra meatloaf
Wave until the van's gone
DON'T
Pack Hank tomorrow's lunch
Set curfews for contractors
Loosen the pipe again
A stranger will arrive at 10:00 to fix the drip under your kitchen sink. Van-lettered drip specialist Hank says the job takes nineteen minutes, and that's the problem. Nineteen minutes isn't enough time to properly mother a grown man, and you've already put a folded towel down for his knees.

By noon Hank will have a turkey sandwich with the crusts cut off. By 1:30 he'll be wearing the guest cardigan you keep for exactly this, because your kitchen 'feels drafty.' By 3:15 you'll have packed him tomorrow's lunch, labeled it HANK in Sharpie with a heart, and given him a curfew. At 6:00 his wife, Lorraine, will call you directly to ask, with real fear in her voice, whether she can have him back.

Your sink will drip again at 9:40, and you'll weep, because it means Hank might come home. A Capricorn figures prominently by refusing to come over and eat the extra meatloaf. Release Hank. Wave from the porch until his van is gone, and then a little after that. Lucky number: 19, the minutes this was supposed to take. Lucky color: Tupperware-lid blue.
DO
Let Hank leave
Freeze the extra meatloaf
Wave until the van's gone
DON'T
Pack Hank tomorrow's lunch
Set curfews for contractors
Loosen the pipe again
Leo

Jul 23 – Aug 22 · Fire · ruled by Sun
You'll sleep sitting up tonight.

Dario gives you a planet-sized blowout at 11:40, and tonight you sleep upright in a dining chair to save it.
Jupiter is in your sign, in your 1st house, making everything bigger, so at 11:40 Dario gives you a blowout with the square footage of a studio apartment. The Sun sextile Jupiter sends forty-one selfies out by 6:00. Then Mars trines Saturn and you finally use discipline, for vanity: tonight you sleep upright in a dining chair like a pharaoh. Guard the hair.
DO
Tip Dario for the kid
Turn sideways through doors
Sleep upright like a pharaoh
DON'T
Let a pillow near it
Text the contact saved NO
Ask your spine's opinion
Mars and inflation-happy Jupiter are both in your sign, in your 1st house of self, and Jupiter makes everything it touches bigger. So at 11:40 your stylist Dario gives you a blowout with the square footage of a studio apartment. It is the best hair of your life. Strangers turn. A kid at the crosswalk says 'whoa,' and you go back and tip Dario another forty percent because of the kid.

Your ruler the Sun is in Libra in your 3rd house of texting, sextile Jupiter, so between noon and 6:00 you will send forty-one selfies to everyone in your phone, including a plumber from 2023 and a number saved only as 'NO.' Mercury squares Jupiter from your 4th house of home, which means the house can't contain the hair. You will turn sideways to get through the bathroom door.

Then Mars trines Saturn, the discipline aspect, exact, and you use discipline the way you always do, once a decade, for vanity. At 11:00 tonight you refuse to let a pillow touch it. You sleep bolt upright in a dining chair like a pharaoh awaiting burial and wake at 4:10 with a neck that sounds like bubble wrap. Your order for the day: guard the hair, sacrifice the spine.
DO
Tip Dario for the kid
Turn sideways through doors
Sleep upright like a pharaoh
DON'T
Let a pillow near it
Text the contact saved NO
Ask your spine's opinion
A retriever will reject you.

At 12:40 Biscuit the retriever snubs you for a man's hard-boiled egg, and by 1:10 you're lying in wet grass.
Mars and Jupiter crowd into your sign, megaphoning your certainty that you're universally adored. At 12:40 in Delancey Park, Biscuit the golden retriever trots past your outstretched hand to lick a man eating a hard-boiled egg. By 1:10 you've tried a baby voice and lying on wet grass, and Biscuit's owner Ron says 'He's just like that.' Let the dog have his egg man.
DO
Let Biscuit have his egg man
Get up off the grass
Return the jerky
DON'T
Use the baby voice
Tell the story six times
Hard-boil an egg for leverage
Megaphone-happy Mars and overfed, overconfident Jupiter are both in your sign, which is clinically like handing a bullhorn to the part of you that was already shouting, and the Sun, your ruler, is sextiling Jupiter, so you'll stroll into Friday convinced you're universally adored. At 12:40 in Delancey Park, a golden retriever named Biscuit will trot right past your outstretched hand and lick a man eating a hard-boiled egg.

This will be your first adult experience of conditional positive regard, and it will come from a dog. By 1:10 you'll have tried the baby voice, the squat, the full lie-down on wet grass and a short monologue about your own warmth. Biscuit's owner, Ron, will say, 'He's just like that,' which is exactly what everyone has ever said about you.

Mercury squares Jupiter, so back at your desk you'll tell the story six times, and in each version Biscuit gets more torn about the decision. By 4:00 you'll own a two-pound bag of beef jerky and hold it in your lap like a grudge. Today's instruction: let the dog have his egg man. Some love simply isn't about you, which the literature files under most of it.
DO
Let Biscuit have his egg man
Get up off the grass
Return the jerky
DON'T
Use the baby voice
Tell the story six times
Hard-boil an egg for leverage
Fire department will rescue you.

You climb the maple to rescue a cat who's fine, and by 5:30 Engine 4 is rescuing you.
At 4:15 you spot Mittens the tabby in the maple out front, perfectly fine, and go live to thirty-one viewers climbing up to save her. At 4:40 Mittens strolls down past you, and you're the one stuck. Engine Company 4 arrives at 5:30, and tomorrow's front page is you in a firefighter's arms, mane flawless. Thank them like a monarch, briefly.
DO
Go live from the ladder
Thank Engine 4 briefly
Buy every copy
DON'T
Rescue a perfectly fine cat
Look down on camera
Autograph the firefighter
A stranger will compliment your hair in the elevator at 9:20, and by lunch you'll have retold it to four coworkers, adding a little more wind each time. Avoid signing contracts. Do sign the break-room birthday card, dead center, twice the size of everyone else, with a flourish that clips Diane's 'HBD.'

At 4:15 you'll spot smug, perfectly fine Mittens, the neighbor's tabby, on a low branch of the maple out front. A cat in a tree is the entire point of both. You'll drag out the ladder anyway, prop your phone against the mailbox and go live to thirty-one viewers, narrating your own bravery. At 4:40 Mittens will stroll down past you, and you'll discover you can't get down. At 5:30 Engine Company 4 arrives with a ladder truck and a lot of questions.

The local paper's photographer will be there, of course, and tomorrow's front page will be you in a firefighter's arms, mane flawless, chin up, like a calendar nobody ordered. Your friends will mock it for a week. You'll buy forty copies. Thank Engine 4 like a monarch, briefly. Lucky number: 31, your viewers, four of them bots. Lucky color: fire-truck red, which you'll claim was your idea.
DO
Go live from the ladder
Thank Engine 4 briefly
Buy every copy
DON'T
Rescue a perfectly fine cat
Look down on camera
Autograph the firefighter
Virgo

Aug 23 – Sep 22 · Earth · ruled by Mercury
You'll find the secret chat.

At 2:15 you're accidentally added to 'Friday Dinner (Virgo-Proof),' and by 4:11 you've fixed their reservation anyway.
Mercury, your ruler, is in secretive Scorpio in your 3rd house of texting, so at 2:15 a glitch adds you to 'Friday Dinner (Virgo-Proof),' eleven friends planning a meal without your laminated agenda. Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets supplies 1,400 messages, nine 'restaraunts' and the wrong Friday. You last eleven minutes. Fix the date, leave the chat.
DO
Fix the wrong Friday
Confirm a party of twelve
Leave the chat fast
DON'T
Count the misspellings aloud
Send the laminated agenda
Rename it Virgo-Approved
Your ruler Mercury is in Scorpio, the sign of secrets, in your 3rd house of texting, with Venus right beside it, so at 2:15 a glitch adds you to a group chat you were never meant to see. It's called 'Friday Dinner (Virgo-Proof).' It has eleven members, it is three weeks old, and it exists so your friends can plan one meal without receiving a laminated agenda.

Mars and Jupiter sit in your 12th house of secrets, and Jupiter inflates whatever it touches, so you will scroll back through 1,400 messages by 4:00. You won't find a single insult. You'll find something worse: the reservation at Marcello's is for 7:30 on the wrong Friday, they spelled it 'restaraunt' nine times, and nobody ever confirmed the party size. Mercury squares Jupiter, so the urge to correct will feel like a sneeze you can't finish.

Saturn is retrograde in your 8th house, the house of other people's business, and it is begging you to hold still. You will last eleven minutes. At 4:11 you fix the date, confirm a party of twelve, and spell 'restaurant' once, correctly, as a gift. Your order for the day: fix the date, leave the chat, and let them believe the restaurant fixed itself.
DO
Fix the wrong Friday
Confirm a party of twelve
Leave the chat fast
DON'T
Count the misspellings aloud
Send the laminated agenda
Rename it Virgo-Approved
Host will announce your 'definately.'

At 8:20 trivia host Dwayne tells forty people your table spelled 'definitely' with an A, and you held the pen.
Copy-editor-of-the-cosmos Mercury sits in your house of texting, squaring Jupiter. At 8:20 trivia host Dwayne tells forty people and a nacho platter that table six spelled 'definitely' with an A. You insisted on holding the pen. By midnight you've audited every text since 2019 and found eleven more. Let someone else hold the answer sheet.
DO
Hand over the answer sheet
Let 'Caribbean' happen
Tip Dwayne anyway
DON'T
Correct the trivia group text
Bring a dictionary to round four
Demand Dwayne issue a correction
Copy-editor-of-the-cosmos Mercury, your ruler, sits in your house of texting and squares Jupiter, an aspect that inflates whatever it touches. You'll spend the day doing what you call helping. At 10:15 you'll answer the trivia-night group text with a corrected version of the group text. At 1:30 you'll fix a 'your' on the elevator flyer with the pen you carry for exactly this.

At 8:20, round three, trivia host Dwayne will lean into the microphone and tell forty people and a nacho platter that table six spelled 'definitely' with an A. Table six is you. You wrote the answer. You insisted on writing the answer. Your teammates will look at you the way you look at everyone, and Jupiter will make it feel like a Senate hearing.

Clinically, we'd call this a rupture in the self-concept: your whole personality was load-bearing on that spelling. By midnight you'll have scrolled back through every text you've sent since 2019 hunting for more stray As, and you'll find eleven. Tonight's order: put the pen down, let someone else hold the answer sheet, and sit on your hands while they spell 'Caribbean.'
DO
Hand over the answer sheet
Let 'Caribbean' happen
Tip Dwayne anyway
DON'T
Correct the trivia group text
Bring a dictionary to round four
Demand Dwayne issue a correction
Barb will ticket your precision.

You re-park eleven times to hit dead center, and Barb from security tickets you for loitering, vehicular.
At 6:05 you pull into the Riverside Plaza lot for one lightbulb and land four inches left of center. By 6:40 you've re-parked eleven times, and Barb from lot security, watching on a monitor, decides you're casing the joint. You explain symmetry. She writes you a $35 ticket for 'loitering, vehicular' and tucks it under your wiper crooked. Leave it crooked all the way home.
DO
Leave the ticket crooked
Admire Barb's tidy boxes
Accept four inches left
DON'T
Gradient the condiment drawer
Re-park a twelfth time
Straighten Barb's name tag
At 12:10 a Gemini will microwave fish in the office kitchen, and you will say nothing, which will cost you everything you have. Instead you'll rearrange the condiment drawer into a gradient, mayo to sriracha. Nobody notices until 3:00, when Paul from accounts opens it, stares, and quietly asks if you're okay.

At 6:05 you'll pull into the Riverside Plaza lot to buy one lightbulb. Your car lands four inches left of center. You re-park. Now six inches right. You re-park. By 6:40 you've re-parked eleven times, and flashlight-wielding lot-security lifer Barb, watching on a monitor, decides you're casing the joint. She'll approach with a radio. You'll explain symmetry. She'll write you a $35 ticket for 'loitering, vehicular,' and tuck it under your wiper crooked.

The lightbulb will be the wrong wattage. Romance is in the air, but it's at a different store. Compatibility tonight: high with Barb, whose ticket has very tidy boxes. Leave that ticket crooked under the wiper all the way home, you tight-assed protractor. Lucky number: 11, the re-parks. Lucky color: parking-line yellow, slightly off.
DO
Leave the ticket crooked
Admire Barb's tidy boxes
Accept four inches left
DON'T
Gradient the condiment drawer
Re-park a twelfth time
Straighten Barb's name tag
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON

Sep 23 – Oct 22 · Air · ruled by Venus
Smoke alarm picks your wish.

Eleven friends bring a blazing birthday cake at 6:00, and by 6:11 Luigi's smoke alarm has made your wish.
The Sun is in your sign and Jupiter sits with Mars in your 11th house of friends, so at 6:00 eleven of them bring you a cake with every candle lit. Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of wanting, and you can't pick a wish. At 6:07 you call a vote. At 6:11 the smoke alarm picks for you. Blow first, wish later.
DO
Blow first, wish later
Call it perfect outside
Stand where the waiter sees
DON'T
Narrow it to three
Let Desmond vote
Wish for a better wish
Happy birthday season, you fence-sitting angel. The Sun is in your sign and sextile Jupiter, and Jupiter sits with Mars in your 11th house of friends, so at 6:00 tonight eleven of them carry a cake toward you at Luigi's with every candle lit. Mars is the planet of fire. Jupiter is the planet of more. Do the damn math: it's a sheet cake with a heat signature.

Here's the snag. Your ruler Venus is retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of what you want and what you think you're worth, squaring Pluto, so 'make a wish' will hit you like a pop quiz in Latin. You narrow it to two, world peace or a better couch. Then three. At 6:07 you ask the table to vote, and Desmond abstains out of spite.

At 6:09 the candles melt into the buttercream, and at 6:11 Luigi's smoke alarm screams so hard the whole restaurant files out to the parking lot. Saturn, retrograde in your 7th house of other people, makes sure the decision was never going to be yours. You'll stand under a streetlight holding a cake shaped like a crater and call it perfect, because a waiter is watching. Your order for the day: blow first, wish later.
DO
Blow first, wish later
Call it perfect outside
Stand where the waiter sees
DON'T
Narrow it to three
Let Desmond vote
Wish for a better wish
They'll make peace against you.

You privately agree with both feuding friends, they compare screenshots at 4:10, and Friendsgiving is suddenly at your place.
Loud, overconfident Mars and Jupiter barge into your house of friends, and at 2:00 Nadia and Rob start fighting about who hosts Friendsgiving. You privately tell each of them they're completely right. At 4:10 they compare screenshots, and at 4:12 they make peace, united by their opinion of you. By 5:00 Friendsgiving is at your place. Pick a side before 2:00.
DO
Pick a side by 2:00
Tape it to your phone
Buy a very large turkey
DON'T
Open a second DM
Agree in alternating paragraphs
Offer to mediate the seating chart
Happy Libra season. Loud, overconfident Mars and Jupiter are crashing your house of friends today, the one room you're supposed to keep quiet. At 2:00 Nadia and Rob will start fighting in the group chat about who has to host Friendsgiving. You'll open two private DMs and tell each of them, warmly and separately, that they are completely right.

By 3:30 you'll be agreeing with both in alternating paragraphs, typing 'no, totally, you're so right' to two people whose entire fight is about who's right. At 4:10 Nadia and Rob will compare screenshots. At 4:12 they'll make peace, the warmest peace in the chat's history, built entirely on a shared opinion of you.

Family-systems therapists have a name for the kid who keeps everyone from fighting: the mediator. They have another name for the one who gets caught: the host. By 5:00 the group will vote, unanimously, that Friendsgiving is at your place, and Venus, your ruler, retrograde in your house of self-worth, will make you thank them for it. Today's order: pick a side, any side, and tape it to your phone before 2:00.
DO
Pick a side by 2:00
Tape it to your phone
Buy a very large turkey
DON'T
Open a second DM
Agree in alternating paragraphs
Offer to mediate the seating chart
Tasting spoons will run out.

You request tasting spoon forty-four at 8:15, and Scoops runs out of spoons before you pick a flavor.
At 7:10 you walk into Scoops on Main with one decision to make. Pistachio spoon. Salted caramel spoon. Pistachio again, to be fair to it. By 8:15, on spoon forty-four, teenage scooper Madison reports the store is out of spoons, and nine people in line turn to stare. At 8:59 she hands you an empty cup, on the house. Pick tomorrow's flavor tonight.
DO
Pick tomorrow's flavor tonight
Apologize to the line
Thank Madison for the cup
DON'T
Retaste pistachio out of fairness
Fall for the 'both' guy
Ask to sample the cup
It's your season, and the forecast promises indulgence. First, at 10:30, your manager will ask whether the client deck should be blue or teal, and you'll schedule a meeting about it for Monday so the decision can age like a cheese.

At 7:10 you'll walk into Scoops on Main with exactly one decision to make. You'll request a tasting spoon of pistachio. Then salted caramel. Then pistachio again, to be fair to it. By 8:15, on spoon forty-four, dead-eyed teenage scooper Madison checks the back and reports that the store is out of spoons. Not ice cream. Spoons. Nine people in line will turn and look at you like you ate a village.

Romance is in the air: the guy fourth in line will say 'just get both,' and you'll fall a little in love with his decisiveness. You will not get both. At 8:59 Madison flips the sign to CLOSED and hands you an empty cup, on the house. Go home and pick tomorrow's flavor tonight. Lucky number: 44. Lucky color: pistachio, or possibly salted caramel, you'll get back to us.
DO
Pick tomorrow's flavor tonight
Apologize to the line
Thank Madison for the cup
DON'T
Retaste pistachio out of fairness
Fall for the 'both' guy
Ask to sample the cup
Scorpio

Oct 23 – Nov 21 · Water · ruled by Pluto
Neighbor will bring a shovel.

You plant tulips by headlamp at 9:40, and at 10:05 Gerald brings a second shovel and swears he saw nothing.
Grave-digging Pluto, your ruler, sits in your 4th house of home, so at 9:40 you plant forty tulip bulbs in black gloves by headlamp like someone disposing of evidence. Venus, retrograde in your sign, makes you look exactly like that. At 10:05 Gerald from next door brings you a second shovel and swears he saw nothing. Let him.
DO
Plant every last bulb
Accept the second shovel
Wave at Gerald slowly
DON'T
Explain the headlamp
Look up fast
Ask Gerald what he's buried
Your ruler, grave-digging Pluto, is in Aquarius in your 4th house of home, trined by Uranus and sextiled by Neptune, which is three outer planets agreeing that tonight you garden. Not in daylight. Daylight is for amateurs. At 9:40 you will kneel in the yard in black gloves and a headlamp and plant forty tulip bulbs, each one lowered into the dark with the tenderness of someone disposing of evidence.

Mercury and Venus are both in your sign, in your 1st house, and Venus is retrograde, so however you look right now, you look like it twice. At 9:52 Gerald from next door steps onto his porch in a bathrobe, watches you pat down fresh soil by headlamp, and says nothing for a very long time. Venus squares Pluto, love colliding with the underworld, so you will look up slowly, which does not help.

Mars and Jupiter sit in your 10th house of reputation, which means your reputation is about to gain one enormous rumor. At 10:05 Gerald walks over carrying a second shovel, hands it to you handle first and says, 'I didn't see anything, and I don't want to.' Then he goes inside and locks the door twice. Your order for the day: plant every bulb, and let Gerald believe whatever keeps him polite.
DO
Plant every last bulb
Accept the second shovel
Wave at Gerald slowly
DON'T
Explain the headlamp
Look up fast
Ask Gerald what he's buried
You'll say Sergeant Nibbles aloud.

At 6:15 you ask new neighbor Mira about Sergeant Nibbles, her childhood hamster, whose name she never told you.
Backsliding love planet Venus is retrograde in your sign and squaring Pluto, so your trust issues have backup. At 9:00 Mira moves into 2C, and by 9:40 you know her childhood hamster was named Sergeant Nibbles. At 6:15 at the mailboxes, you say it out loud. She goes very still. Practice your surprised face.
DO
Practice your surprised face
Let Mira introduce herself
Close the registry tab
DON'T
Mention her half-marathon time
Judge the fondue set aloud
Bring Mira a hamster
Backsliding love planet Venus is retrograde in your sign and squaring Pluto, your ruler, with Mercury parked in there too, so in clinical terms your trust issues now have backup. At 9:00 a new neighbor named Mira will move into 2C, and by 9:40 you'll know her middle name, her 2014 half-marathon time, and that her childhood hamster was named Sergeant Nibbles.

You'll call it due diligence. Clinically, it's trust issues wearing a lanyard. Mars and Jupiter are in your house of career, so at 1:15 your manager will praise your 'attention to detail' during a review, and you'll take it as a mandate. By 3:00, on company time, you'll have found Mira's cousin's wedding registry and quietly judged the fondue set.

At 6:15 at the mailboxes, Mira will mention growing up with pets, and you'll say, warmly, 'Like Sergeant Nibbles?' Nobody has spoken that name aloud since 1999. She will go very still, the way a deer does. Tonight's instruction: practice in the mirror the face ordinary people make when they hear new information, and wear it at the mailboxes until Thanksgiving.
DO
Practice your surprised face
Let Mira introduce herself
Close the registry tab
DON'T
Mention her half-marathon time
Judge the fondue set aloud
Bring Mira a hamster
Your admirer will be IT.

You trace your secret admirer to Neil in IT, and it's the phishing test, and you passed.
At 9:02 an email arrives: 'Someone here can't stop thinking about you,' with a link. You don't click; you pull the headers, cross-reference the badge log, and by 3:00 corner Neil from IT with a laminated timeline. It was the quarterly phishing test, and at 4:30 he hands you a certificate in front of the whole floor. Hang it, and never let anyone know you were hoping.
DO
Pull the email headers
Laminate the timeline
Hang the certificate
DON'T
Click the cartoon heart
Admit you were hoping
Dust Neil for prints
A secret admirer will make contact at 9:02: an email titled 'Someone here can't stop thinking about you,' with a pink link that says CLICK TO SEE WHO. Anyone else would click. You'll print it, dust the printout with baby powder for fingerprints, and pull the email headers before your first meeting.

By 3:00 you'll have traced the sender to a server in the IT closet, cross-referenced the badge log, and cornered cardigan-armored network guy Neil behind the vending machine with a laminated timeline. Neil will be thrilled. The admirer was the quarterly phishing test, you're the only one of 400 employees who didn't click, and at 4:30 he'll hand you a certificate and a ten-dollar sandwich gift card in front of the whole floor.

Romance is in the air, technically, since Neil now admires you for real and wants to get lunch. A Pisces figures prominently by clicking the link twice. Hang the certificate where Neil can see it, and never let anyone know you were hoping. Lucky number: 400, coworkers who'd hand their passwords to a cartoon heart. Lucky color: the blue of a link you'll never click.
DO
Pull the email headers
Laminate the timeline
Hang the certificate
DON'T
Click the cartoon heart
Admit you were hoping
Dust Neil for prints
Sagittarius

Nov 22 – Dec 21 · Fire · ruled by Jupiter
Your followers will want Tuesdays.

You launch your own philosophy by 11:30, and at 4:15 your followers ask about Tuesdays, so you defect.
Jupiter, your ruler, sits in your 9th house of big beliefs, so you walk out of a 10:00 mindfulness intro with three of its people and launch your own philosophy by 11:30. Nine commandments on a Wendy's napkin. Then Saturn, retrograde in your 5th, does what Saturn does: at 4:15 Hamid asks about Tuesdays. Never give the faithful a calendar.
DO
Write commandments on napkins
Let Kyle design the logo
Teach the handshake once
DON'T
Agree to Tuesdays
Learn anyone's last name
Leave through the front door
Your ruler, more-of-everything Jupiter, is in Leo in your 9th house of big beliefs, with Mars riding shotgun, so at 10:00 you wander into a free intro session for a mindfulness collective in a rented VFW hall because the sign said 'snacks.' By 10:20 you disagree with the leader. By 11:30 you've walked out with three of his people, Dot, Hamid and a teenager named Kyle, and launched your own philosophy in the parking lot.

The Sun sextiles Jupiter, so the launch goes great. You name it by noon, write nine commandments on a Wendy's napkin by 1:00 and invent a secret handshake by 2:00, because Mercury squares Jupiter from your 12th house of secrets, and nothing makes you feel enlightened like a handshake nobody else knows. Dot calls you 'teacher.' Kyle makes a logo.

Then the trouble. Saturn is retrograde in your 5th house of fun, and Saturn is the planet of meetings. At 4:15 Hamid asks what time the group meets on Tuesdays. Tuesdays. Plural. Recurring. By 4:16 you'll have defected from your own movement out the back of the Wendy's, and the three of them will carry on without you, better. Your order for the day: preach all you like, but never give the faithful a calendar.
DO
Write commandments on napkins
Let Kyle design the logo
Teach the handshake once
DON'T
Agree to Tuesdays
Learn anyone's last name
Leave through the front door
You'll call Bruno Danny DeVito.

At 12:15 Renata shows you her new tattoo of her dog Bruno, and you ask why she got Danny DeVito.
The Moon walked out of your sign this morning, beating you to the exit, and Mercury squares big-mouthed Jupiter, so your mouth runs ahead of your brain. At 12:15 Renata shows you her new tattoo of her dog Bruno, and you ask why she got Danny DeVito. By 4:00 the whole office calls Bruno DeVito. When shown anything permanent, say 'wow' and stop.
DO
Say 'wow' and stop
Compliment the shading only
Leave lunch before dessert
DON'T
Explain the compliment
Mention Bruno's DeVito energy
Get a matching Rhea Perlman
The Moon packed up and left your sign this morning, the first thing all year to walk out before you did, and Mercury is squaring big-mouthed ruler Jupiter, which clinically means the mouth leaves the brain at the curb. At 12:15 at lunch, Renata will roll up her sleeve to show you her brand-new tattoo, a portrait of her dog, Bruno.

You'll look at it for one sincere second and ask why she got Danny DeVito. Then, because you believe honesty is your love language, you'll explain that it's a compliment, that DeVito is a national treasure, that Bruno has always had a very DeVito energy. Every sentence will be a shovel. Renata paid four hundred dollars and sat for three hours.

In session we'd call your bluntness a defense: say the rude thing first and nobody gets close enough to say one back. By 4:00 the whole office will be calling Bruno DeVito, and Renata will have changed her lock screen. Saturn sits retrograde in your house of romance, so nobody finds this charming tonight either. Today's order: when shown anything permanent, say 'wow' and nothing after 'wow.'
DO
Say 'wow' and stop
Compliment the shading only
Leave lunch before dessert
DON'T
Explain the compliment
Mention Bruno's DeVito energy
Get a matching Rhea Perlman
You'll own a Branson week.

You win a free Branson weekend at 4:20 and walk out of the Ramada owning one July week until 2071.
At 4:20 Crystal calls: your gas-station fishbowl entry won two nights in Branson, plus a ninety-minute owner preview tonight at the Ramada by the interstate. At minute 88, closer Duane says 'no commitment,' and some wild horse inside you lies down. You walk out at 9:31 owning the second week of July, every year, until 2071. Go every July, free spirit.
DO
Enter the gas-station fishbowl
Eat the sheet cake
Text the chat 'PLACE'
DON'T
Look for a clock
Let Duane say 'commitment'
Ask about Christmas week
An unexpected windfall arrives at 1:15, when you drop your name in a fishbowl at the Gas-N-Go for a FREE DREAM GETAWAY, because you'll enter anything with a pen and a horizon. At 4:20 a woman named Crystal will call: you've won two nights in Branson, plus a 'brief ninety-minute owner preview' tonight at the Ramada by the interstate.

You'll go, because you're always packed. At 7:00 the preview starts in a room with a sheet cake and no clocks. At minute 88, gold-chained, polo-tucked closer Duane will lean in and say 'no commitment,' and something deep inside you, some wild horse, will lie down. At 9:31 you'll walk out owning the second week of July in a Branson two-bedroom, every year, until 2071.

At 10:00 your group chat gets 'guess who has a PLACE.' A Taurus figures prominently by laughing until they have to sit on the floor. Compatibility: high with Duane, permanently. Go to that condo every July for forty-five years, you free-range dumbass. Lucky number: 2071. Lucky color: timeshare-lobby teal.
DO
Enter the gas-station fishbowl
Eat the sheet cake
Text the chat 'PLACE'
DON'T
Look for a clock
Let Duane say 'commitment'
Ask about Christmas week
Capricorn

Dec 22 – Jan 19 · Earth · ruled by Saturn
Slide fourteen will move you.

At 3:30 a beautiful pie chart on slide 14 makes you cry, and accounting assumes layoffs.
The Moon enters your sign and parks in your 1st house, the house of your face, so for the first time since 2009 an emotion appears on you in public. At 3:30 a pie chart of Q3 margins on slide 14 is so beautiful the Moon squares Neptune and you shed one tear. Accounting assumes layoffs. Never tell them it was the margins.
DO
Let the tear run
Print slide 14 in color
Fridge it by 6:00
DON'T
Wipe your cheek
Explain the margins
Request an encore slide
The leaky, sentimental Moon walks into your sign this morning and parks in your 1st house, the house of your face. The Moon rules feelings. The 1st house is where things show. You see the problem. For the first time since roughly 2009, an emotion is going to appear on you in public, and you will have no say in the scheduling, which is the part that'll really hurt.

It happens at 3:30 in the Q3 budget review, on slide 14: a pie chart of operating margins so clean and so balanced that the Moon squares Neptune, the fog-and-tears aspect, and a single tear runs down your cheek. You won't wipe it. Wiping is an admission. Mercury and Venus are in your 11th house of groups, and the whole group will see it.

By 3:45 two people in accounting will assume layoffs and quietly update their résumés. Your ruler Saturn is retrograde in your 4th house of home, trined exactly by Mars, so at 6:00 you go home, print slide 14 in color and put it on the fridge, where other people keep their children's drawings. Your order for the day: let the tear finish its commute, and tell no one it was about the margins.
DO
Let the tear run
Print slide 14 in color
Fridge it by 6:00
DON'T
Wipe your cheek
Explain the margins
Request an encore slide
You'll cc HR on sympathy.

Benji's sourdough starter dies, and at 2:25 he gets your condolence email, cc HR, with bulleted next steps.
A fog-squared First Quarter Moon sits in your sign, so a feeling gets into the building without a badge. At 2:10 Benji tears up because his sourdough starter, Clint Yeastwood, didn't survive the weekend. At 2:25 you send a condolence email, cc HR, with bulleted next steps and a replacement link. By 7:00 it's being read aloud at a bar. Skip the bullet points.
DO
Write sympathy without bullets
Delete the Prime link
Remove HR from cc
DON'T
Attach a calendar invite
Title it 'Re: Starter'
Request a postmortem on the starter
A half-lit, fog-squared First Quarter Moon sits in your sign today, squaring Neptune, which in clinical terms means a feeling will get into the building without a badge. It won't be yours. At 2:10 Benji at the next desk will tear up because his eight-year-old sourdough starter, Clint Yeastwood, did not survive the weekend.

You'll freeze for eleven seconds, stand, pat his shoulder twice like you're checking a melon, and sit back down. At 2:25 you'll send a formal condolence email, cc HR, with a bulleted list of next steps, a Prime link to a replacement starter, and the subject line 'Re: Starter.' You will consider this the warmest work of your career.

Mercury and Venus are in your house of friends, so at 5:00 Benji will forward your email to a group chat you aren't in, and by 7:00 it'll be read aloud at a bar in a robot voice. In session we'd call this avoidant attachment. You'd call it efficiency. Tonight's order: write one sympathy text with no bullet points, and do not attach a calendar invite to it.
DO
Write sympathy without bullets
Delete the Prime link
Remove HR from cc
DON'T
Attach a calendar invite
Title it 'Re: Starter'
Request a postmortem on the starter
HR will force a vacation.

HR forces you onto vacation at 9:30, and at 4:00 you attend your own meeting as a guest.
At 9:30 HR's Deb informs you that you have sixty-three unused vacation days and today is one of them; your badge dies at 9:41. At 3:52 you sign the visitor log as 'Consultant,' clip on a GUEST badge and attend your own 4:00 budget meeting, where you take the best notes in the room. Deb escorts you out twice. Go home and relax eleven minutes.
DO
Wear Deb's lei
Sit on the dark couch
Log eleven relaxed minutes
DON'T
Sign in as 'Consultant'
Take the best notes
Expense the museum
The Moon enters your sign this morning, and at 9:30 HR follows it in. Lei-wielding HR enforcer Deb will inform you that you have sixty-three unused vacation days and that today is one of them. Your badge dies at 9:41. Security walks you to the lobby like a hostage in business casual.

You'll last until noon in the car, answering email off the building's Wi-Fi. At 1:15 you'll try a museum, which turns out to be an open-plan office with no deliverables, and leave at 1:31. At 3:52 you'll walk back into the lobby, sign the visitor log as 'Consultant,' clip on a paper GUEST badge and sit in on your own 4:00 budget meeting, where you take the best notes in the room.

Deb will find you at 4:20 by the whiteboard, leaning toward a variance column like it owes you money, and escort you out a second time. This time she takes back the lei. Go home and sit on a couch you've only seen in the dark. Relax for eleven minutes, and log it. Lucky number: 63. Lucky color: visitor-badge manila.
DO
Wear Deb's lei
Sit on the dark couch
Log eleven relaxed minutes
DON'T
Sign in as 'Consultant'
Take the best notes
Expense the museum
Aquarius

Jan 20 – Feb 18 · Air · ruled by Uranus
Mason will reach Finland today.

You give six-year-old Mason a ham radio at 2:00, and by 4:40 he's skipping cake for Finland.
Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 5th house of kids and fun, so at 2:00 you bring six-year-old Mason a 340-piece ham radio kit while everyone else brought slime. By 4:40 Pluto in your 1st delivers: Mason is talking to Jarmo on a trawler off Finland and won't come to cake. Rick bans you forever. Hand Mason the microphone.
DO
Bring your own antenna
Hand Mason the microphone
Thank Jarmo in Finnish
DON'T
Bring slime
Explain Big Toy to Rick
Put Rick on with Jarmo
Your unsupervised-genius ruler Uranus is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of kids and fun, so at 2:00 you arrive at a six-year-old's birthday party with a gift nobody asked for: a 340-piece build-it-yourself ham radio kit, plus a twelve-foot antenna you bought separately. Everyone else brought slime. You will explain to three parents that slime is a distraction manufactured by Big Toy.

Pluto and the North Node both sit in your 1st house, and Uranus trines Pluto, so fate is on your side and being weird about it. By 3:15 the birthday boy, Mason, abandons the bouncy castle to sit with you on the garage floor. At 4:40 the two of you raise a fishing trawler off the coast of Finland, and a man named Jarmo wishes Mason happy birthday in Finnish.

Mars and Jupiter are in your 7th house of partners and open enemies, and today the enemy is Mason's dad, Rick, who scheduled cake for 4:45. Mason won't come. He's on with Jarmo. Venus squares Pluto, so Rick will tell you, through his teeth, that it's the best gift Mason has ever gotten and you can never come back. Your order for the day: hand Mason the microphone and let Rick light the candles alone.
DO
Bring your own antenna
Hand Mason the microphone
Thank Jarmo in Finnish
DON'T
Bring slime
Explain Big Toy to Rick
Put Rick on with Jarmo
You'll form a splinter cleanup.

At 6:10 the leaf cleanup votes against your manifesto, so you found a splinter cleanup across the street, membership one.
Demoted revolutionary Pluto sits in your sign, so at 5:30 you arrive at the Alder Street leaf cleanup with a fourteen-point manifesto on leaf blowers. At 6:10 the group votes to keep raking, and you cross the street to found a splinter cleanup, membership one, picking up the exact same leaves. At 7:15 you decline Dolores's cider on principle. Rake with the others.
DO
Rake with the others
Pocket points seven through fourteen
Accept Dolores's cider
DON'T
Cross the street
Read point six aloud
Excommunicate the retired couple
Demoted revolutionary Pluto sits in your sign alongside the North Node, which clinically means you'll feel destined to overthrow something by dinner. At 5:30 you'll show up to the neighborhood leaf cleanup on Alder Street with a printed fourteen-point manifesto on the ethics of leaf blowers. By 5:50 you'll have read points one through six aloud to a retired couple holding rakes.

At 6:10 the group will vote to keep raking. You'll call it groupthink, cross the street and found a splinter cleanup, membership one, with its own principles and a hand-lettered sign. You'll pick up the same leaves on the same block, thirty feet from everyone, refusing to make eye contact with your former comrades. Psychology calls this differentiation. Most people get it done at fifteen.

Mars and Jupiter are in your house of partners and enemies, so at 7:15 Dolores from the original cleanup will wave you over for hot cider, and you'll decline on principle, then watch them drink it. You love humanity deeply, in the aggregate; it's the individual units holding rakes you can't stand. Tonight's order: rake with the others, and keep points seven through fourteen in your pocket.
DO
Rake with the others
Pocket points seven through fourteen
Accept Dolores's cider
DON'T
Cross the street
Read point six aloud
Excommunicate the retired couple
Podcast host will correct you.

You explain a plumbing podcast to Russ for forty minutes, and Russ, the host, says you got it backwards.
At 7:55 you corner quiet Russ at Tamsin's cheese board and explain episode 212 of 'Pipe Dreams,' the medieval plumbing podcast, for forty minutes. At 8:35 Tamsin mentions Russ hosts it. He tells you, kindly, that you've got the Flemish gutters backwards, then asks if you've tried a speed where you can hear the words. Relisten to episode 212 at normal speed, as penance.
DO
Bring the website-free wine
Relisten at normal speed
Delete the twelve-part thread
DON'T
Corner anyone by cheese
Mention the 1.75x
Correct Russ about Russ
A stranger figures prominently tonight. At 7:30 you'll arrive at Tamsin's dinner party with a bottle of orange wine from a winery that refuses to have a website, and a podcast nobody asked about: 'Pipe Dreams,' three hundred episodes on medieval plumbing, which you've consumed at 1.75x since 2022.

At 7:55 you'll corner quiet, oatmeal-sweatered Russ by the cheese board and explain episode 212, the Flemish gutter one, for forty minutes. Russ will nod. Russ will ask one gentle question. At 8:35 Tamsin will say 'oh, you've met Russ, he does the podcast,' and Russ, the actual voice that lives in your ears, will tell you, kindly, that you've got the gutters backwards. Then he'll ask if you've tried a speed where you can hear the words.

Romance is in the air, but it's between Russ and the other guests, who will cluster around him to escape you. At 9:40 you'll go home and draft a twelve-part thread about how the host misunderstands his own show. Delete it, and relisten to episode 212 at normal speed, as penance. Lucky number: 1.75. Lucky color: lead-pipe gray.
DO
Bring the website-free wine
Relisten at normal speed
Delete the twelve-part thread
DON'T
Corner anyone by cheese
Mention the 1.75x
Correct Russ about Russ
Pisces

Feb 19 – Mar 20 · Water · ruled by Neptune
You'll ride to the ocean.

You start a lighthouse daydream on the 8:10 train, and by 10:45 you've reached the actual ocean.
Mercury and Venus sit in your 9th house of long journeys, so on the 8:10 train you start a daydream about keeping a lighthouse and sail past your stop and nine more. At 10:45 the line ends at an actual harbor. Neptune, retrograde in your 2nd house of money, leaves $1.15 on your card. Tell Deborah the sea was on the agenda.
DO
Name the dog Captain
Take the call seaside
Ask the gift shop guy
DON'T
Watch for your stop
Check the fare home
Tell Deborah about Captain
Mercury and Venus are both in Scorpio in your 9th house of long journeys, so on the 8:10 train to work you'll start a daydream about keeping a lighthouse with a three-legged dog named Captain. It's a rich daydream. It has weather. You miss your stop at 8:31, and you won't notice the next nine either.

Mars and Jupiter are in your 6th house of work routine, so at 9:30, while you're still riding, Deborah from your team books three meetings and Jupiter makes them longer. At 10:45 the train stops at the end of the line, a harbor town with gulls and a gift shop, and you take the 11:00 call from a bench by the water and say you're on a site visit. Technically true. You are at a site. You are visiting it.

Your ruler Neptune is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money, with retrograde Saturn beside it, two planets agreeing your wallet is fiction. Forty years I've read charts and I've never seen a balance this imaginary: at 1:15 your transit card shows $1.15, and the fare home is $9.50. At 1:20 you ask the gift shop guy if the lighthouse is hiring. Your order for the day: ride until the land runs out, and tell Deborah the sea was on the agenda.
DO
Name the dog Captain
Take the call seaside
Ask the gift shop guy
DON'T
Watch for your stop
Check the fare home
Tell Deborah about Captain
Windbreaker man will feel better.

You inhale a stranger's sigh on the 8:20 bus, and by 6:00 he's laughing while you carry his mood.
The solar system's most beautiful puddle, Neptune, is retrograde and squared by the Moon, leaving your boundaries the strength of a wet napkin. At 8:20 a man in a teal windbreaker sighs on the 14 bus, and you inhale his whole mood. By 2:30 you're upset about his fantasy football trade. At 6:00 he's laughing in a bar. Return the sigh.
DO
Return the sigh
Sit near a happy person
Learn what the Raiders are
DON'T
Inhale near strangers
Explain the trade to Lorraine
Sit downwind of anyone sighing
The solar system's most beautiful puddle, Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde and squared by the Moon today, which in clinical terms means your boundaries have the structural integrity of a wet napkin. At 8:20 on the 14 bus, a man in a teal windbreaker will let out one long sigh, and you will inhale it. By 9:00 you'll be carrying his entire bad mood like a bag you volunteered to check.

Mars and Jupiter in your house of daily grind will magnify whatever you brought in, so by noon you'll be inexplicably furious about a fantasy football trade you've never heard of. At 2:30 you'll tell Lorraine in payroll that you're going through something, and when she asks what, you'll say 'a Raiders thing.' You have never watched a Raiders game.

At 6:00 you'll pass a bar on Grand and see him through the window, windbreaker off, laughing, completely fine, having offloaded the whole thing onto the softest available stranger. In session we'd say you've confused empathy with a lost-and-found. Tonight's order: return the sigh. Ride the 14 home, sit next to the happiest person aboard, and breathe through your mouth.
DO
Return the sigh
Sit near a happy person
Learn what the Raiders are
DON'T
Inhale near strangers
Explain the trade to Lorraine
Sit downwind of anyone sighing
Hypnotist will lose you tonight.

A Holiday Inn hypnotist loses you at the count of seven, and at 10:30 he can't get you back.
At 8:00 the Astonishing Marvin counts backward in a Holiday Inn ballroom, and by seven you're gone, deeper than anyone in the act's history. He asks for a chicken; you become a sea otter, floating across the banquet carpet cracking a dinner roll on your chest. At 10:30 he's still snapping and sweating, and Nadia's still filming. Answer to your human name once before bed.
DO
Volunteer before he asks
Hold Nadia's hand like kelp
Answer to your human name
DON'T
Cluck on command
Join Marvin's tour
Crack the roll on Nadia
A friend will figure prominently: at 6:00 Nadia will text that she has two-for-one tickets to 'The Astonishing Marvin: Mind Master,' a hypnotist show in a Holiday Inn ballroom off Exit 14, and you'll say yes before you've read the word 'hypnotist,' because you always do.

At 8:00 Marvin will ask for a volunteer, and you'll already be on stage; nobody, including you, knows how. He'll count backward from ten, and by seven you'll be gone, deeper than anyone in the history of the act. He'll ask for a chicken. You'll calmly become a sea otter instead, floating on your back across the banquet carpet, cracking a dinner roll on your chest. At 10:30 Exit 14's least astonishing mind master will still be snapping, and sweating, and Nadia will still be filming.

You'll ride home at 11:15 holding Nadia's hand the way an otter holds kelp, so you don't drift off. The truth is you were in a trance long before Marvin started counting; he just found you there. Answer to your human name at least once before bed. Lucky number: 7, where the count lost you. Lucky color: otter-belly brown.
DO
Volunteer before he asks
Hold Nadia's hand like kelp
Answer to your human name
DON'T
Cluck on command
Join Marvin's tour
Crack the roll on Nadia

YA ROASTED!

WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-16 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris

Planet positions
Sun	23.4° Libra
Moon	2.0° Capricorn
Mercury	17.8° Scorpio
Venus	5.0° Scorpio ℞
Mars	10.6° Leo
Jupiter	22.2° Leo
Saturn	10.4° Aries ℞
Uranus	5.2° Gemini ℞
Neptune	2.4° Aries ℞
Pluto	3.1° Aquarius
North Node	26.9° Aquarius

TODAY'S ASPECTS

Mars trine Saturn (0.2°, flowing)
Neptune sextile Pluto (0.6°, easy)
Moon square Neptune (0.4°, tense)
Sun sextile Jupiter (1.1°, easy)
Venus square Pluto (1.9°, tense)
Uranus trine Pluto (2.1°, flowing)
Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
Moon sextile Venus (3.0°, easy)
Mercury square Jupiter (4.4°, tense)
Venus square Mars (5.6°, 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 16, 2026.