ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Libra season
- First Quarter in Capricorn
- 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
Destiny will throttle your go-kart.
You bump a nine-year-old three times at go-karts, and at 1:31 Destiny governs your kart to four mph.
Mars, your ruler, is in your 5th house of fun and trining Saturn retrograde in your sign, so your aggression flows straight into somebody else's rules. At 1:31, after you bump the same nine-year-old three times at Thunder Alley Go-Karts, sixteen-year-old Destiny governs your kart to four miles an hour, and the whole birthday party laps you singing. Shake the kid's hand at the snack bar.
DO
- Wave to Destiny on the way out
- Shake the nine-year-old's hand
- Let the birthday boy pass
DON'T
- Bump the same kid again
- Argue with Destiny's remote
- Race the birthday minivan home
Hot-headed little Mars, your ruler, is in Leo in your 5th house of fun you can't afford, sharing the room with Jupiter. Translation: at 1:15 you'll be at Thunder Alley Go-Karts on a Saturday, surrounded by birthday parties, and by lap two you'll have bumped the same nine-year-old three times, because he passed you, and to you that's an act of war.
Now the knife. Mars trines Saturn, retrograde in your own 1st house, nearly to the degree, and a trine flows: your aggression slides straight into somebody else's rules. At 1:31 a sixteen-year-old attendant named Destiny raises one remote and governs your kart to four miles an hour. Who's driving now? Destiny. You'll finish at walking pace while the whole party laps you, singing 'Happy Birthday' as they pass.
The Moon in Capricorn squares that same Saturn from your 10th house of reputation, so by 6:00 the birthday mom's video of you, purple and creeping past the snack bar, has 4,000 views and a Chariots of Fire soundtrack. Today's order: find the nine-year-old, shake his hand, and look him in the eye like a man who lost fair.
DO
- Wave to Destiny on the way out
- Shake the nine-year-old's hand
- Let the birthday boy pass
DON'T
- Bump the same kid again
- Argue with Destiny's remote
- Race the birthday minivan home
You'll smash everything by 2:04.
You smash the entire rage room by 2:04, then spend fifty-six paid minutes alone with your feelings.
Saturn is retrograde in your first house with its foot on the brake, so naturally you'll spend Saturday at a rage room. By 2:04 you'll have smashed every plate, printer and ceramic Garfield in the place, and Kev won't bring more. That leaves fifty-six paid minutes alone with your feelings and a sledgehammer. Stay seated until three and name one emotion that isn't 'fast.'
DO
- Microwave the full two minutes
- Sit until three o'clock
- Read Kev's feelings wheel
DON'T
- Ask Kev for more plates
- Fight the door
- Arm-wrestle the feelings wheel
Let's look at the material we're working with today. Disappointed cosmic driving instructor Saturn is sitting retrograde in your first house with one foot on the brake. So at 9:40, when the microwave says two minutes, you will open it at forty seconds, three separate times, and eat a burrito that's lava on the ends and a glacier in the middle. In session, we call this a pattern.
At 1:00 you'll pay sixty dollars for an hour in a rage room, a business built for people like you and staffed by people who saw you coming. By 2:04 you'll have smashed every plate, printer and ceramic Garfield in the building. Kev, the attendant, will not bring more. Kev has seen some shit. That leaves fifty-six paid minutes, one sledgehammer, and the thing you've been outrunning since kindergarten: a quiet room with you in it.
What comes up for you at 2:17 will be a fourth-grade spelling bee. Let it. At 2:40 you'll try to fight the door, and the door is rated for this. Kev will slide a laminated feelings wheel under it. Today's instruction: stay seated until three o'clock and name one emotion that isn't 'fast.'
DO
- Microwave the full two minutes
- Sit until three o'clock
- Read Kev's feelings wheel
DON'T
- Ask Kev for more plates
- Fight the door
- Arm-wrestle the feelings wheel
You'll outbid an eighty-four-year-old today.
You outbid your eighty-four-year-old neighbor for a goose lamp at 2:59, $412, and now she visits it nightly.
At 2:14 someone called GooseLady51 bids nine dollars on a ceramic goose lamp you don't want, and you take it as a declaration of war. You win at 2:59 for $412. At 6:30 Marguerite, eighty-four, from across the street, hand-delivers it, delighted, and by 8:15 she's at your window waving at it. Leave the curtains open. That's the deal now.
DO
- Leave the curtains open
- Wave back at Marguerite
- Dust the goose nightly
DON'T
- Bid on anything after 2:00
- Close the curtains at 8:15
- Charge Marguerite admission
A bidding war is in your stars, and you will fire the first shot. At 2:14 you open an online auction for a ceramic goose lamp you have zero use for, see that someone called GooseLady51 has bid nine dollars, and take it as a goddamn declaration of war. By 2:58 you have refreshed the page forty times. At 2:59 you win, at $412, and shout 'YES' at a lamp.
An unexpected windfall arrives at 6:30 in a bubble-wrapped box the size of a toddler. It's unexpected because you've already forgotten what you bought. GooseLady51 turns out to be Marguerite, eighty-four, from the yellow house across the street, and she walked it over herself. She is not angry. She is thrilled. She asks if she can visit it.
Romance is not in the air, but Marguerite is at your front window at 8:15, waving at the goose, and she will be there every night this week. A Taurus figures prominently: the goose, which will never leave your end table again. Compatibility: high with anyone who lets you win. Leave the curtains open. That's the deal now. Lucky number: 412. Lucky color: mail-order goose white.
DO
- Leave the curtains open
- Wave back at Marguerite
- Dust the goose nightly
DON'T
- Bid on anything after 2:00
- Close the curtains at 8:15
- Charge Marguerite admission
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Taurus
You'll dine with the dishwashers.
You checked CHICKEN in April, and by 8:15 you've traded your wedding seat for short rib eaten in the kitchen.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 7th house of contracts, so the RSVP card where you checked CHICKEN comes back to bite you at tonight's 6:40 dinner service. Venus squares Pluto, a power struggle, and you win it the Taurus way: by 8:15 you've traded your seat to Uncle Ferris for short rib, eaten standing by the dish pit. Take both foil trays home.
DO
- Work table nine
- Befriend Lorraine before 6:40
- Take both foil trays
DON'T
- Accept the chicken as fate
- Return to your assigned seat
- Offer the bride a bite
Second-helping saint Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house of marriage and contracts, with Mercury in there too, rereading the fine print. So at tonight's wedding the binding document comes back for you: the RSVP card you mailed in April, where you checked CHICKEN. At 6:40 the server sets down the chicken. At 6:41 you see the short rib at table nine.
Venus squares Pluto, which is a power struggle, and Pluto sits in your 10th house of reputation, so it'll be a public one. You'll petition head caterer Lorraine twice, get nowhere, then work table nine like a hostage negotiator, and by 8:15 you'll have traded your seat, your place card and your spot in the family photo to the groom's Uncle Ferris for one plate of braised short rib.
With Mars and Jupiter crowding your 4th house of home and comfort, the happiest room in the building will be the kitchen: you eat standing between the dish pit and the walk-in, glowing, while the dishwashers raise their ladles to you. Orders for the day: when Lorraine offers leftovers in foil at 11:00, take both trays and carry them out like the rings.
DO
- Work table nine
- Befriend Lorraine before 6:40
- Take both foil trays
DON'T
- Accept the chicken as fate
- Return to your assigned seat
- Offer the bride a bite
Tasha will press Install today.
Tasha borrows your phone at 11:20 and taps Install, and you spend eight hours dragging icons home.
Backpedaling Venus is retrograde in your partnership house, so at 11:20 your friend Tasha borrows your phone for a brunch menu and taps the Install button you've dodged since 2022. You'll spend eight hours dragging every icon back to its stall, and the new font stays forever. Grieve it for one hour, then stop bargaining with the settings app.
DO
- Guard your phone at brunch
- Grieve the font one hour
- Leave Tasha on read
DON'T
- Hand Tasha anything with a screen
- Bargain with the settings app
- Beg the old font to come home
The material we're working with today: backpedaling Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of partners, walking backward into everyone you love. At 11:20 your well-meaning, boundary-trampling friend Tasha will borrow your phone to look up a brunch menu. While you're in the bathroom she'll notice the little red badge you've been nursing since 2022, the one that says an update is available, and she will tap Install, because Tasha believes in growth.
You'll come back to a black screen and a progress bar. Clinically, this is what we call a rupture. By noon the phone will reboot with your icons in a new grid, the clock in a new font and the flashlight somewhere a flashlight has no business being. You'll spend the whole afternoon dragging every app back to the square it lived in, one by one, like a farmer herding cows home after a tornado.
By 8:30 the home screen will look exactly like it did this morning, except the font, which cannot be changed and will not be forgiven. Tasha will text 'isn't it so much better?' and you'll leave her on read until spring. Today's instruction: grieve the old font for one hour, then close Settings before you start bargaining with it.
DO
- Guard your phone at brunch
- Grieve the font one hour
- Leave Tasha on read
DON'T
- Hand Tasha anything with a screen
- Bargain with the settings app
- Beg the old font to come home
Open house will include you.
You settle into a stranger's open house at 1:00, and by 5:45 the listing says 'conveys with one Taurus.'
At 1:00 you drift into a stranger's open house for the cookies and find the heated bathroom floor. By 3:00 you've claimed the reading nook with a cashmere throw, and realtor Denise's three eviction attempts all bounce off you. At 5:45 she updates the listing: four bed, two bath, one Taurus, conveys. Stay seated. The young couple buying it seems nice.
DO
- Claim the reading nook early
- Eat cookie number fourteen
- Let Denise call you a fixture
DON'T
- Stand up for 'liability'
- Correct the young couple
- Leave the cashmere behind
An open house is in your forecast, and you will be in it permanently. At 1:00 you wander into a stranger's open house on Birch Street for the free cookies. By 1:40 you have found the heated bathroom floor. By 3:00 you are in the upstairs reading nook with a plate, a cashmere throw and the posture of someone who pays the property tax.
Blazer-armored realtor Denise will try three methods of removal: charm at 3:30, the word 'liability' at 4:15, and turning off the nook's lamp at 5:00. Nothing lands. You have eaten fourteen cookies and you do not need a lamp. At 5:45 she gives up and updates the listing: four bed, two bath, one Taurus, conveys with the property.
Romance is in the air, specifically between you and that throw, which you will describe to friends tonight as 'the one.' A young couple makes an offer at 6:10 and asks whether you come with the house. Denise says yes. You don't correct her. You're not a guest anymore, pal, you're a fixture. Stay seated. Lucky number: 14. Lucky color: heated-tile gray.
DO
- Claim the reading nook early
- Eat cookie number fourteen
- Let Denise call you a fixture
DON'T
- Stand up for 'liability'
- Correct the young couple
- Leave the cashmere behind
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Gemini
Phil will finish your lawn.
You mow half your lawn at 9:10, and at 3:30 Phil finishes it with a note: 'Got the rest, champ.'
Mercury, your ruler, is in your 6th house of chores, so at 9:10 you mow half the front lawn, go in for water, and start four other projects. Mercury squares Jupiter in your 3rd house of neighbors, and at 3:30 Phil from next door finishes your lawn on his riding mower and leaves a note: 'Got the rest, champ.' Finish one thing before he does.
DO
- Finish the letter G
- Paint the door's other side
- Wave humbly at Phil
DON'T
- Start a sixth project
- Tell the chat you're a lawn guy
- Ask Phil about the grout
Sentence-starting, never-finishing Mercury, your ruler, is in Scorpio in your 6th house of chores, with Venus retrograde beside it, so today is Saturday Projects Day and the projects will breed. At 9:10 you'll mow exactly half the front lawn, go inside for a glass of water, and never come out. By 2:00 the shower is half-regrouted, the spice rack is alphabetized through F, and one door is painted on the side nobody sees.
Mercury squares Jupiter, which sits in Leo in your 3rd house of neighbors with Mars beside it, so the neighbor in question is large, motivated and watching. At 3:30 Phil from next door, a man who owns a riding mower and an opinion, will finish your lawn without asking, perfect diagonal stripes, and tuck a note in your screen door: 'Got the rest, champ.'
Uranus is retrograde in your own sign, so your reinventions run backward: at 6:00 you'll tell the group chat you're 'a lawn guy now,' and Saturn in your 11th house of friends makes sure Dana replies with a photo of Phil's note, which Phil already posted on Nextdoor. The order: finish one thing, any one thing, before Phil comes for the spice rack.
DO
- Finish the letter G
- Paint the door's other side
- Wave humbly at Phil
DON'T
- Start a sixth project
- Tell the chat you're a lawn guy
- Ask Phil about the grout
Silent retreat will refund everyone.
You break a silent retreat at 9:07 over socks, and by noon Anand refunds all twenty people.
Sideways-spinning Uranus is retrograde in your sign, so you sign up for a silent retreat at 9:00. At 9:07 you whisper about a stranger's socks, by 11:30 the retreat has a group chat you named, and at noon facilitator Anand refunds all twenty people and asks you never to return. Sit seven silent minutes in your car. Someone will be narrating.
DO
- Keep sock questions inside
- Sit seven minutes, radio off
- Accept Anand's refund gracefully
DON'T
- Name the group chat
- Interview a stranger's socks
- Ask the brass bell how it's doing
Our material today: sideways-spinning, backward-walking Uranus is retrograde in your own sign, which is the cosmos asking you to turn inward. You'll take this literally and sign up for a free half-day silent meditation retreat at the community center, starting at 9:00. Facilitator Anand will explain that silence is a gift. You'll nod, which, for the record, is the longest you've gone without commentary since birth.
At 9:07 you'll lean over and whisper to the woman on the next cushion, asking where she got her socks. By 9:40 the socks have a backstory. By 10:15 three people are swapping podcast recommendations, and by 11:30 the retreat has a group chat that you named. Anand will stand at the front holding a little brass bell he no longer believes in. At noon he'll refund all twenty participants and ask, gently, that you never return.
This afternoon what comes up for you is a deep unease about the seven minutes between 9:00 and 9:07, which you'll describe to four different friends as 'transformative,' each in a different version. Today's instruction: sit in your parked car for seven minutes, radio off, and notice who you are when nobody's listening. Spoiler: it's someone narrating.
DO
- Keep sock questions inside
- Sit seven minutes, radio off
- Accept Anand's refund gracefully
DON'T
- Name the group chat
- Interview a stranger's socks
- Ask the brass bell how it's doing
Your brunch dates leave together.
You double-book Theo and Dani at Pearl's Brunch, and by 12:10 they're sharing a booth without you.
You book Theo at 11:00 and Dani at 11:15, same brunch spot, two tables, two personalities, one mimosa you shuttle between them like a relay baton. At 12:05 you duck into the bathroom, they reach for the same hot sauce, and by 12:10 they're laughing about how you're from both Duluth and Lisbon. They leave together. Pick one face before next Saturday.
DO
- Pick one hometown
- Tip both servers
- Like their photo once
DON'T
- Book tables 6 and 9
- Leave them alone with hot sauce
- Toast the couple from both accounts
Romance is in the air, twice, eleven feet apart. You have booked two first dates at Pearl's Brunch, Theo at 11:00 and Dani at 11:15, and you will spend the next hour jogging between table 6 and table 9 with a separate personality for each, a separate backstory for each, and one mimosa you keep carrying back and forth like a relay baton.
At 12:05 you duck into the bathroom to reset your hair for table 9, and Theo and Dani reach for the same bottle of hot sauce. By the time you return, they are sharing a booth, comparing your two hometowns, and laughing about how you claimed to be from both Duluth and Lisbon. They split the check. They do not split it with you.
A text arrives at 4:40. It's Theo, asking for Dani's last name so he can send flowers. Compatibility: high with each other. At 9:00 they post a sunset photo captioned 'thank you, whoever you were,' and you will like it from both of your accounts. Two faces, zero dates, beat it. Pick one face before next Saturday. Lucky number: 0. Lucky color: third-wheel taupe.
DO
- Pick one hometown
- Tip both servers
- Like their photo once
DON'T
- Book tables 6 and 9
- Leave them alone with hot sauce
- Toast the couple from both accounts
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Cancer
You'll adopt six uncarved pumpkins.
You buy a pumpkin to carve for Sunday's contest, and by 10:00 six uncarved, named pumpkins live with you.
The Moon, your ruler, squares Saturn, so a carving-contest promise collides with your feelings. At 11:20, with Jupiter inflating your 2nd house of money, you pay $61 for a pumpkin, name him Gus, and can't cut him. You buy a cheaper one to carve and name her Doreen. By 10:00 six uncarved pumpkins live in your living room. Withdraw from the contest, citing family reasons.
DO
- Knit Gus a scarf
- Send the third email
- Name every last gourd
DON'T
- Hand anyone the knife
- Go back to Hollister Farm
- Google pumpkin pie near Gus
Weepy, waxing Moon, your ruler, is in Capricorn in your 7th house of contracts, squaring Saturn in your 10th house of public standing. Translation: the sign-up sheet you initialed for tomorrow's neighborhood carving contest, judged by Mrs. Pruitt from the HOA, is now a binding obligation, and at 11:20 you'll drive to Hollister Farm to buy the victim.
Mars and Jupiter sit in your 2nd house of money, and Jupiter never met a number it couldn't inflate. You'll pay $61 for a 38-pound pumpkin and name him Gus in the parking lot. At 4:00 you'll stand over Gus with a knife and not do it, because he already has a face if you look. So you'll drive back for a cheaper one to carve instead, and name her Doreen. By 10:00 six uncarved pumpkins will live in your living room, $290 total, one under a blanket.
Venus, retrograde in your 5th house of creativity, throws the artistic urge into reverse, so instead of carving anything you'll knit Gus a scarf, and Mercury, in there with her, will help you draft Mrs. Pruitt three withdrawal emails, one smudged. Today's order: send the third email, cite family reasons, and mean every word.
DO
- Knit Gus a scarf
- Send the third email
- Name every last gourd
DON'T
- Hand anyone the knife
- Go back to Hollister Farm
- Google pumpkin pie near Gus
Priya's 'ok.' will wreck Saturday.
Priya texts 'ok.' at 10:45, and by 4:00 her sweater's on her porch with a farewell letter.
The half-lit, emotionally unavailable Moon is in your partner house, so at 10:45 Priya answers your three-paragraph message with 'ok.' Period included. By 4:00 her gray sweater and a 900-word farewell letter sit on her porch. At 4:22 she texts a dog in a hot-dog costume and 'see you Sunday.' Get the letter back before her roommate reads it aloud.
DO
- Read periods as punctuation
- Answer the dog photo
- Retrieve the letter by five
DON'T
- Reread 'ok.' fourteen times
- Audit friendships back to 2019
- Hunt heart-shaped rocks at the lake
The material we're working with: your ruler, the half-lit, emotionally unavailable Moon, is sitting in businesslike Capricorn in your house of partners, squaring off with Saturn like a parent at a recital who didn't clap. At 10:45 your friend Priya will answer your three-paragraph message about Sunday plans with 'ok.' Lowercase. With a period.
You'll read it fourteen times before lunch. By 1:00 you'll have reviewed every interaction since 2019 and located the moment it went wrong, which was you, at a barbecue, being too much. By 3:15 you'll have written a 900-word letter releasing her and folded her gray sweater with hospital corners, and by 4:00 both will be on her porch under a heart-shaped rock you drove to the lake to find.
At 4:22 Priya will text 'why is my sweater on my porch,' then a photo of her dog in a hot-dog costume, then 'see you Sunday!!' Two exclamation points. In session, we call this anxious attachment; on her porch, we call it a hostage note with knitwear. Today's instruction: read every period as punctuation, and get that letter back before her roommate Dev reads it aloud at dinner.
DO
- Read periods as punctuation
- Answer the dog photo
- Retrieve the letter by five
DON'T
- Reread 'ok.' fourteen times
- Audit friendships back to 2019
- Hunt heart-shaped rocks at the lake
Car wash will halt mid-cycle.
At 10:20 you decide your Corolla is scared, stop the car wash mid-cycle, and fourteen cars watch you comfort it.
At 10:20 the Sudz-O-Rama brushes come down and you become certain your car is scared. By the wax cycle you've hit the emergency stop and climbed out to comfort a 2014 Corolla while fourteen cars back up onto Route 9 and attendant Marco, nineteen, asks if you need a minute. You need eleven. Hand-wash it next time and say 'good job' out loud.
DO
- Hand-wash in the driveway
- Say 'good job' out loud
- Apologize to Marco
DON'T
- Enter the tunnel
- Send the half-clean photo
- Shush the pickup truck again
A short trip is in your stars, and it will not be short. At 10:20 you pull into the Sudz-O-Rama tunnel, the big blue brushes descend, and you will become absolutely certain the car is scared. By the second rinse you are crying. By the wax cycle you have hit the emergency stop and climbed out to stand beside the driver's door, telling a 2014 Corolla it's going to be okay.
An unexpected crowd gathers. Fourteen cars back up onto Route 9 behind you while nineteen-year-old brush wrangler Marco, who was not trained for this, holds the machine still and asks if you need a minute. You need eleven. A man in a pickup honks at 10:34, and you will turn around and shush him, gently, because the car is listening.
At 2:00 you text three friends a photo of the car, clean on one side, captioned 'we got through it.' Nobody knows what to say. One sends a heart and quietly mutes you. Compatibility: high with anything whose headlights you can call eyes. Hand-wash it in the driveway next time and say 'good job' out loud. Lucky number: 14. Lucky color: half-rinsed silver.
DO
- Hand-wash in the driveway
- Say 'good job' out loud
- Apologize to Marco
DON'T
- Enter the tunnel
- Send the half-clean photo
- Shush the pickup truck again
-
Leo
You'll black out the block.
At 7:02 your Halloween display blacks out Elm Street, and forty neighbors gather around Mr. Feeney's one battery candle.
Mars and Jupiter in your sign make everything bigger, so by 4:00 your yard holds a fourteen-foot reaper and nine skeletons. Mercury squares Jupiter from your 4th house of home, which is the wiring: at 7:02 you throw the switch and black out Elm Street. Forty neighbors walk past you to admire Mr. Feeney's single battery candle. Deflate the reaper yourself, facing the crowd.
DO
- Deflate the reaper facing out
- Compliment Mr. Feeney's candle
- Tip Lyle's bucket crew
DON'T
- Add a tenth skeleton
- Flip the master switch twice
- Project your face onto Feeney's
Mars and Jupiter are both in your sign, in your 1st house, which is the astrological equivalent of handing a trumpet a megaphone. Swollen, generous Jupiter enlarges whatever it touches, and today it touches your front yard. By 4:00 you'll have installed a fourteen-foot inflatable reaper, nine animatronic skeletons, two fog machines and a projector that throws your own face onto the garage door, laughing.
Your spotlight-hogging ruler, the Sun, is in Libra in your 3rd house of neighbors, sextile Jupiter, so the whole street turns out to look; that's the easy part. Mercury squares Jupiter from your 4th house of home, and Mercury is the wiring. At 7:02 you'll throw the master switch and black out every house on Elm. The only light left will be Mr. Feeney's single battery candle in his window, and forty neighbors will walk right past you to stand around it.
Mars trines Saturn in your 9th house of big beliefs, so your faith in More flows, unobstructed, into a lecture: at 8:30 utility foreman Lyle, up in his bucket truck, asks you to unplug the reaper personally. Today's order: deflate it yourself, slowly, facing the crowd, and bow all the way down with it.
DO
- Deflate the reaper facing out
- Compliment Mr. Feeney's candle
- Tip Lyle's bucket crew
DON'T
- Add a tenth skeleton
- Flip the master switch twice
- Project your face onto Feeney's
Cashier will not compliment twice.
Dolores compliments your jacket at 9:10, and on your fifth CVS trip she compliments someone else's.
Supersizing Jupiter is in your sign, so at 9:10 Dolores at CVS says 'nice jacket' and you treat it like a lifetime achievement award. You go back for gum, batteries and a pointless greeting card, chasing an encore. On visit five, at 5:40, she compliments the corduroy jacket on the man behind you. Go home and compliment your jacket yourself.
DO
- Say thank you once
- Buy only what you need
- Compliment the jacket yourself
DON'T
- Unzip to show the lining
- Return for gum at 11:30
- Tail the corduroy man home
Today's material: blustering Mars and supersizing Jupiter are both camped in your sign, which in session we'd call a lot of weight on one self-image. At 9:10, at the CVS on the corner, a cashier named Dolores will look up from the register and say 'nice jacket.' Two words. Unprompted. Your nervous system will process this like a lifetime achievement award.
At 11:30 you'll go back for gum you don't chew, wearing the jacket, standing at an angle. Nothing. At 1:45, batteries. At 3:20, a greeting card for no occasion, the jacket unzipped now to show off the lining. Dolores will scan it all with the serene neutrality of a woman who meant it once. At 5:40, on visit five, she'll look right past you and tell the man behind you, buying one Snickers, that she loves his corduroy jacket.
Tonight what comes up for you is an urgent need to know where the corduroy man shops. Resist. This is external validation seeking, and Dolores is not your mirror, pal; Dolores is a CVS employee with three hours left on her shift. Today's instruction: go home, hang the jacket up and compliment it yourself, out loud, once. It's had a long day too.
DO
- Say thank you once
- Buy only what you need
- Compliment the jacket yourself
DON'T
- Unzip to show the lining
- Return for gum at 11:30
- Tail the corduroy man home
Magician will make you vanish.
You volunteer at 8:00 for the Astonishing Reynaldo, he vanishes you at 8:14, and he never brings you back.
At 8:00 you're on your feet before the Astonishing Reynaldo finishes asking for a volunteer, and by 8:06 you've done two bows and a bit about your cape. At 8:14 he puts you in the Vanishing Cabinet and simply never brings you back. Bree the stagehand finds you at 9:40, still holding your applause face. Sit on your hands until the show ends.
DO
- Sit on your hands
- Leave the cape home
- Clap for the doves
DON'T
- Stand before he finishes asking
- Bow a second time
- Wait for your reappearance cue
A stranger will ask for a volunteer tonight, and you will be standing before he finishes the sentence. At 8:00, at the Grand Marquis Lounge, the Astonishing Reynaldo picks you, and by 8:06 you have done a bow, a second bow and a bit about your cape that nobody asked for, because you came in a cape.
Thirty-five-year veteran of folding tables the Astonishing Reynaldo has been doing this shit since 1991, and he knows exactly what you are. At 8:14 he invites you into the Vanishing Cabinet. The curtain drops. The audience gasps. And then he simply moves on to the doves. The second act, everyone will agree in the parking lot, is the best show he has ever done.
At 9:40 a stagehand named Bree opens the cabinet and finds you still waiting for your reappearance cue, holding your applause face. There is no reappearance cue, pal. There never was. Romance is in the air, but it's between Reynaldo and the doves. Sit on your hands until the show is over. Lucky number: 0. Lucky color: inside-the-cabinet black.
DO
- Sit on your hands
- Leave the cape home
- Clap for the doves
DON'T
- Stand before he finishes asking
- Bow a second time
- Wait for your reappearance cue
-
Virgo
Spare screw will dismantle Saturday.
You take over Priya's bookshelf at 1:00, dismantle it over one leftover screw, and at 9:15 learn it's a spare.
Mercury, your ruler, is in your 3rd house of neighbors, so at 1:00 you seize the Allen key from Priya, who skipped step 4 of her bookshelf. Mercury squares Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, and at 3:40 there's one screw left over. You dismantle everything to find its home, and at 9:15 Priya reads the parts list: '1 spare screw included.' Pocket it forever.
DO
- Read the parts list first
- Let Priya hold the shelf
- Keep the spare forever
DON'T
- Slow down near open garages
- Label the muffin tins
- Correct Priya's lemonade ratio
Instruction-reading, step-counting Mercury, your ruler, is in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors, with Venus retrograde beside it. So at 1:00, when you pass Priya's open garage and see her building a bookshelf with step 4 skipped, you will not keep walking. By 1:06 you'll be holding the Allen key. By 1:20 Priya will be holding a lemonade, demoted to spectator in her own garage.
Mercury squares Jupiter, which is hiding with Mars in your 12th house of secrets, so something small and concealed grows into a war. At 3:40 the shelf will be level to the millimeter, and there'll be one screw left over. You'll take the whole thing apart to find its home. At 9:15, under a work light, surrounded by ninety-one labeled parts in muffin tins, Priya will read you the parts list: '1 spare screw included.'
The Moon in Capricorn in your 5th house of fun makes this, God help you, your idea of fun, and Saturn in your 8th house of other people's stuff makes you rebuild every piece before you're allowed to leave. Your instruction: put the spare screw in your wallet and carry it for the rest of your life, like a saint's knuckle bone.
DO
- Read the parts list first
- Let Priya hold the shelf
- Keep the spare forever
DON'T
- Slow down near open garages
- Label the muffin tins
- Correct Priya's lemonade ratio
Your nap will fail inspection.
Your watch scores your scheduled 2:00 nap a 4 out of 100, and you retake it until dinner.
Overstuffed Jupiter is hiding in your house of secrets, and the secret is you've never relaxed by accident. You color-code a 'REST DAY' spreadsheet, nap on schedule at 2:00, and your watch scores it a 4. You retake the nap until dinner, rehang the curtains and move spontaneity to Sunday. Take the watch off at 9:00. Don't grade the drawer.
DO
- Take the watch off at 9:00
- Leave the pillow unadjusted
- Let spontaneity happen today
DON'T
- Color-code the word 'unwind'
- Rehang the curtains mid-nap
- Grade the drawer
Our material today: hot-headed Mars and overstuffed Jupiter are hiding in your twelfth house of secrets, and the secret is that you have never once relaxed by accident. At 8:00 you'll open a fresh spreadsheet titled 'REST DAY (Sat)' and block it in fifteen-minute increments, color-coded: lavender for 'unwind,' sage for 'be present,' a nervous yellow for 'spontaneity, 4:15 to 4:30.'
At 2:00 the calendar will call for a twenty-minute nap. You'll lie down, adjust the pillow seven times and spend the full twenty minutes reviewing whether 'nap' deserved its own color. At 2:20 your smartwatch will score the nap a 4 out of 100 and suggest 'trying again.' You will. At 3:05, an 11. At 4:40, a 9, a regression you'll blame on the curtains, which you'll rehang. By 6:00 you'll have missed spontaneity entirely and moved it to Sunday.
Tonight what comes up for you is the creeping suspicion that rest was never something you could earn with a good score. Sit with that for exactly as long as is comfortable, which for you is the length of a Bluetooth pairing. Today's instruction: take the watch off at 9:00, put it in a drawer, and do not grade the drawer.
DO
- Take the watch off at 9:00
- Leave the pillow unadjusted
- Let spontaneity happen today
DON'T
- Color-code the word 'unwind'
- Rehang the curtains mid-nap
- Grade the drawer
Museum guard will tackle you.
At 1:40 you straighten a museum painting, Tito the guard tackles you, and the tilt turns out intentional.
At 1:40 you spot an orange canvas hanging two degrees off level in Gallery C and touch the frame. Every alarm in the building goes off, and guard Tito, bored since 2009, tackles you onto a bench. Two hundred people evacuate, and the docent explains the piece is called 'Slant No. 4.' The artist is outside, filming. Keep your hands in your pockets.
DO
- Keep hands in pockets
- Apologize to Slant No. 4
- Buy the half-off tote
DON'T
- Bring a pocket level
- Correct the docent's bullhorn
- Critique Tito's tackling form
A short trip to the art museum is in your stars, and so is a crime. At 1:40 in Gallery C you will notice a large orange canvas hanging two degrees off level. You will glance around. You will reach out. The moment your fingertip touches the frame, every alarm in the building goes off, along with a strobe you will later describe as 'excessive but well-mounted.'
Bored-since-2009 former linebacker Tito will tackle you onto a bench at 1:41. Two hundred patrons are evacuated to the front steps, and a docent informs you through a cracked bullhorn that the tilt was intentional. The piece is called 'Slant No. 4.' The artist is present. She is in the crowd outside, and she is filming.
By 5:00 the clip has a local news chyron: LEVEL-HEADED LUNATIC. Friends forward it to you nine times, each with a correction, and two of them are right. An unexpected windfall: the gift shop sells you a 'Slant No. 4' tote at half off, and you will ask for one where the print is straight. Keep your hands in your pockets until Monday. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: alarm-strobe white.
DO
- Keep hands in pockets
- Apologize to Slant No. 4
- Buy the half-off tote
DON'T
- Bring a pocket level
- Correct the docent's bullhorn
- Critique Tito's tackling form
-
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON
Dominic will ban your returns.
You return and rebuy the same suede boots three times, and at 4:50 Dominic bans you from returns forever.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, so you return the suede boots at 10:00, buy them back at 10:20, and keep going. Saturn, retrograde in your 7th house of contracts, is the return policy, and at 4:50 Dominic bars you from returning anything at Halvorsen's, ever. You thank him; someone finally decided. Keep the boots. Ask nobody.
DO
- Keep the cognac boots
- Thank Dominic sincerely
- Mute Bree's poll
DON'T
- Ask the group chat
- Stand near flattering registers
- Appeal Dominic's ban
Throw-pillow goddess Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of possessions, and retrograde means going back. So at 10:00 you'll go back to Halvorsen's to return the cognac suede boots you bought Tuesday. At 10:20 you'll buy them again, because the light by the register is very flattering. At 12:45 you'll return them a second time, with a little speech.
The Sun, in your sign for birthday season, sextiles Jupiter in your 11th house of friends, so the group chat will be gloriously, uselessly supportive: at 1:30 Tasha votes keep, Omar votes return, and Bree sends a poll. By 3:15 you're back at the counter buying them a third time, wearing them out of the store, and turning around in the parking lot.
Saturn, retrograde in your 7th house of contracts, is the store's return policy, and it's had enough of your shit. At 4:50 clerk Dominic will slide the boots across the counter and inform you that you're the first customer in Halvorsen's history barred from returning anything, ever. You'll thank him. It's the most relaxed you've felt since August. Today's order: keep the boots and never ask anyone's opinion of them again.
DO
- Keep the cognac boots
- Thank Dominic sincerely
- Mute Bree's poll
DON'T
- Ask the group chat
- Stand near flattering registers
- Appeal Dominic's ban
You'll thank Trina for liver.
Trina serves you liver instead of pancakes at 11:58, and you thank her, eat it, and order more to go.
Conflict-allergic Venus is retrograde in your money house, so at 11:58 Trina brings you liver and onions instead of lemon ricotta pancakes, and you say 'perfect, thank you' and eat all of it. You apologize to her eight times for her mistake, tip forty percent and order the liver to go. Say 'actually' once before sundown.
DO
- Say 'actually' once
- Send the liver back
- Let Trina's apology land
DON'T
- Return her sorry eight times
- Tip forty percent as penance
- Apologize to the styrofoam
Here's today's material: conflict-allergic Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of money, so every exchange today runs backward and costs you extra. At 11:40 you'll order the lemon ricotta pancakes at the Birch Street Diner. At 11:58 your server, Trina, will set down a steaming plate of liver and onions, garnished with a sprig of parsley like a tiny white flag.
You will say, 'Oh, perfect, thank you.' You will eat the entire thing, smiling at Trina on every pass, chewing. At 12:31 she'll realize the mix-up and apologize, and you'll apologize back for confusing her, and the two of you will trade sorries eight times like a tennis rally nobody's allowed to win. In session we call this people-pleasing. Your taste buds are calling it a hostage situation.
At 12:45 you'll leave a forty percent tip as a fine for her inconvenience and order a second liver to go, so she doesn't think you didn't like the first one. It will sit in your fridge in its styrofoam until Thursday, judging you. Today's instruction: say the word 'actually' once, to anyone, before sundown. Practice on the styrofoam.
DO
- Say 'actually' once
- Send the liver back
- Let Trina's apology land
DON'T
- Return her sorry eight times
- Tip forty percent as penance
- Apologize to the styrofoam
You'll photograph a stranger's wedding.
You take 312 photos of strangers at the overlook, miss the sunset, and by 8:10 you're shooting their June wedding.
At 5:40 a couple at the Miller Point overlook asks you to take one photo. You take 312, move them left and right, and debate the man's hat until the sun sets behind them at 6:22. At 8:10 Renée and Arjun text: their June wedding photographer canceled. You say yes instantly, for parking money. Practice saying 'one photo' in the mirror.
DO
- Take exactly one photo
- Let the sun be in it
- Ask about a budget
DON'T
- Debate the hat
- Answer texts after 8:00
- Offer engagement shots too
A stranger will hand you a phone at 5:40 at the Miller Point overlook and ask, 'Could you just take one of us?' One. You will take three hundred and twelve. You will move them left, then right, then into better light, then ask the man to remove his hat, then ask him to put it back, because without it the composition felt dishonest.
At 6:22 the sun sets behind them while you are still deciding whether it belongs in the shot. It does not wait for you. Nothing ever does. The couple, Renée and Arjun, thank you in the dark and scroll the photos on the drive home, and at 8:10 a text arrives: they're getting married in June, and their photographer just canceled.
You will say yes before you can stop yourself, the only fast decision you make all year. They cannot pay. They will cover parking. It's Libra season, your birthday month, and your gift to yourself is a June wedding with 210 strangers. Compatibility: high with anyone who needs a yes, low with your own Saturdays. Practice saying 'one photo' in the mirror. Lucky number: 312. Lucky color: missed-sunset orange.
DO
- Take exactly one photo
- Let the sun be in it
- Ask about a budget
DON'T
- Debate the hat
- Answer texts after 8:00
- Offer engagement shots too
-
Scorpio
You'll unmask yourself at dessert.
You interrogate all seven guests at Colette's murder-mystery dinner, then learn at 9:45 your unread card says MURDERER.
Venus, retrograde in your sign, runs your charm backward, and it squares your ruler Pluto in your 4th house of home and the past. At Colette's 7:00 murder-mystery dinner you skip your character card to interrogate all seven guests, until 9:45, when everyone turns to you: page one says MURDERER. Read your own file first.
DO
- Read page one
- Blink at the heiress
- Confess before dessert
DON'T
- Break the butler again
- Stare over the candles
- Accuse Colette of hosting
Mercury and Venus are both in your sign, and Venus is retrograde, so your charm runs in reverse today: everything magnetic about you reads as suspicious. Perfect timing, because at 7:00 Colette hosts a 1926 murder-mystery dinner in her dining room, and you've been mailed a character envelope. You'll skim the name, Lord Ashby, and stop reading, because you'd rather read people.
Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house make tonight a public showcase of your interrogation skills. Through the soup you'll break the butler. Through the roast you'll make the heiress cry. By 9:00 you'll have accused all seven guests, two of them twice, staring over the candles until Colette asks you, politely, to blink.
Venus squares demoted-but-still-furious Pluto, your ruler, in your 4th house of home and the past, and the past wins. At 9:45, over dessert, Colette asks the killer to reveal themselves, and every head turns to you, because MURDERER is printed on page one of the envelope you never finished. You've been hunting yourself all night and losing. Today's order: read your own file first.
DO
- Read page one
- Blink at the heiress
- Confess before dessert
DON'T
- Break the butler again
- Stare over the candles
- Accuse Colette of hosting
Darnell will reassemble your secrets.
You shred your whole life by 5:00, and by 9:30 Darnell reassembles your secret: string cheese, the good kind.
Ex-planet Pluto squares Venus from your house of home, so at 10:15 you buy a shredder and spend the afternoon destroying everything with handwriting on it. At 7:10 the wind splits the bag across the street, and by 9:30 neighbor Darnell reassembles one strip: 'string cheese (the GOOD kind).' That's the secret. Say 'thanks, Darnell' and nothing else.
DO
- Keep the shredder receipt
- Double-bag the confetti
- Reply 'thanks, Darnell' only
DON'T
- Stare down the Staples kid
- Shred the shredder's manual
- Deny the string cheese
Today's material: demoted, still-bitter ex-planet Pluto, your ruler, is sitting in your house of home, squared by Venus, which in plain clinical language means the call is coming from inside the house. At 10:15 you'll buy a cross-cut shredder at Staples, security level P-4, and the kid at the register will ask if you want your receipt. You'll look at him until he understands.
From noon to 5:00 you'll shred everything in your home with handwriting on it: every birthday card since 2009, a takeout menu you circled things on, a sticky note that just says 'no,' the shredder's own manual. You'll be calm. You'll be thorough. You'll fill four garbage bags with confetti and feel, for the first time in years, truly unknowable.
At 7:10 a gust will split a bag on the curb and spread your entire inner life across Linden Court. Retired jigsaw obsessive Darnell from next door will sit on his porch until 9:30, reassemble exactly one strip, and text it to you: 'string cheese (the GOOD kind).' That's the secret. That's what the mystique was protecting. Today's instruction: reply 'thanks, Darnell' and absolutely nothing else.
DO
- Keep the shredder receipt
- Double-bag the confetti
- Reply 'thanks, Darnell' only
DON'T
- Stare down the Staples kid
- Shred the shredder's manual
- Deny the string cheese
Your stare will win $300.
You stare down Gus's poker night without knowing poker, win $300, then ask the table, 'Got any sevens?'
At 9:15 at Gus's poker night you're dealt a seven, a two and zero knowledge of poker. So you do the stare, unblinking, four minutes. Gus folds a full house. Phil the dentist has to leave the room. By 11:00 you're up $300, and at 11:45 you ask the table, 'Got any sevens?' Keep the money. Never learn the rules.
DO
- Hold the stare four minutes
- Pocket the $300
- Make Phil blink first
DON'T
- Blink before Gus folds
- Look up the rules
- Ask Lorraine for her sevens
A game of chance is in your stars. At 9:15 at Gus's monthly poker night you will be dealt a seven, a two and absolutely no idea how poker works. You will not admit this. You will instead do the stare, the one you've practiced in mirrors since middle school, and you will hold it, unblinking, for four full minutes.
Gus will fold a full house. Lorraine will fold a straight. Card-shark-since-1987 dentist Phil will fold, stand up and leave the room to compose himself. By 11:00 your silent stare has taken $300 from people who actually know what they're doing, and nobody at the table will look at you directly.
At 11:45 you finally reveal your hand and say, out loud, 'Got any sevens?' The table goes quiet. Gus realizes you have been playing Go Fish all night. You keep the $300, because nobody can prove anything and Phil is too scared to try. Compatibility: low with Gus, permanently. Never learn the rules. Lucky number: 7. Lucky color: unblinking-eyeball red.
DO
- Hold the stare four minutes
- Pocket the $300
- Make Phil blink first
DON'T
- Blink before Gus folds
- Look up the rules
- Ask Lorraine for her sevens
-
Sagittarius
You'll toast in fake Portuguese.
You fake Portuguese at 7:30, nod for fifty minutes, and owe a toast at Tomás's daughter's Porto wedding.
Jupiter, your ruler, is in your 9th house of foreign places, so at 7:30 at Casa Lusitânia you greet the waiter in fluent-sounding Portuguese you don't speak. Mercury squares Jupiter from your 12th house of secrets, and owner Tomás talks to you for fifty minutes while you nod. At 8:35 you've agreed to toast his daughter's Porto wedding. Open Duolingo tonight.
DO
- Learn a fifth word
- Book the hotel block
- Sit next to Jess
DON'T
- Say 'obrigado' with feeling
- Laugh when Tomás laughs
- Mention you also speak Greek
Yes-before-the-question-ends Jupiter, your ruler, is in Leo in your 9th house of foreign places, sharing the room with Mars, and the Sun sextiles it from your 11th house of friends. So at 7:30, at Jess's birthday dinner at Casa Lusitânia, you'll greet the waiter with an 'obrigado' you picked up on a five-day trip in 2019, in the accent of a man raised on a sardine boat. Get a load of you.
Mercury squares Jupiter from your 12th house of secrets, and the secret is that you know four words of Portuguese and one of them is 'pastry.' At 7:41 owner Tomás pulls up a chair, delighted, and talks to you for fifty minutes. You'll nod. You'll laugh when he laughs. At 8:35 he hugs you, weeping, and Jess translates what you agreed to: a toast at his daughter's wedding in Porto, next June, in Portuguese.
Saturn, retrograde in your 5th house of fun, means the bill for fun arrives late and with interest: by 10:00 Tomás texts you the hotel block. The Moon, in your 2nd house of money and square that Saturn, says the flight's already $900. Today's order: open Duolingo tonight and don't close it until June.
DO
- Learn a fifth word
- Book the hotel block
- Sit next to Jess
DON'T
- Say 'obrigado' with feeling
- Laugh when Tomás laughs
- Mention you also speak Greek
Open road ends at Kohl's.
You let the open road decide at 8:00, and it delivers you to the Kohl's 2.3 miles away.
Overpromising Jupiter sits in your house of travel, so at 8:00 you toss a duffel in the car, refuse maps and let the road decide. The road picks the Kohl's 2.3 miles away. You stay all day, buy a fleece, and post the loading-dock sunset as 'found myself out here.' Drive home the long way. It's also 2.3 miles.
DO
- Pack the duffel anyway
- Buy the fleece
- Drive home the long way
DON'T
- Call fitting room six abroad
- Caption the loading dock spiritually
- Ask a mannequin about its journey
Today's material: oversized, overpromising Jupiter, your ruler, is lounging in your ninth house of travel and big beliefs, telling you what it always tells you, which is that you're one tank of gas away from enlightenment. At 8:00 you'll toss a duffel bag in the back seat, leave the maps app closed on principle and announce to nobody that today you go where the road takes you.
The road will take you left. Then left again. A right at the Arby's, because it felt honest. At 8:19 you'll pull into the parking lot of the Kohl's 2.3 miles from your house and decide, with the certainty of someone who's read half an Alan Watts book, that this is where you were meant to be. Sure it is. You'll stay until sundown. You'll buy a fleece, try it on in fitting room six and describe the experience, to yourself, as a border crossing.
At 6:20 you'll post the sunset over the Kohl's loading dock captioned 'found myself out here,' and it will get more likes than anything you've posted from an actual country. What comes up for you is the realization that you were never traveling toward anything. Today's instruction: drive home the long way. It's also 2.3 miles.
DO
- Pack the duffel anyway
- Buy the fleece
- Drive home the long way
DON'T
- Call fitting room six abroad
- Caption the loading dock spiritually
- Ask a mannequin about its journey
You'll leave tattooed with 'W.'
Eleven seconds into a compass tattoo at 2:47, you bolt down Fourth Street, and your forearm just says 'W.'
At 2:30 you ask Dez at Iron Lotus for a giant compass to symbolize your free spirit. Eleven seconds into the needle, 'forever' lands on your chest, and by 2:49 you're three blocks away with Dez chasing you down Fourth Street holding the card reader. Your forearm now says, simply, 'W.' Commit to one meaning for the W by Sunday.
DO
- Tip Dez from the bus
- Pick one W
- Wear long sleeves Monday
DON'T
- Say 'forever' near a needle
- Explain it at 7:30 drinks
- Answer to Walter
Avoid permanent decisions, says every horoscope ever printed, and today you will make one and leave halfway through. At 2:30 you walk into Iron Lotus Tattoo and ask Dez for a big, meaningful compass on your forearm to symbolize your free spirit. At 2:47, eleven seconds into the needle, the word 'forever' will land on your chest like a cinder block.
At 2:48 you announce you need some air. At 2:49 you are three blocks away with a paper towel taped to your arm, and Dez is chasing you down Fourth Street holding your jacket and the card reader. You will tip him from a bus. What remains on your forearm is a single, confident letter: W.
At 7:30 drinks you will tell four different people it stands for Wanderlust, Wyoming, Whatever and 'West, obviously.' A stranger at the bar asks if it's for a guy named Walter. You say yes, then leave the bar before he can ask a follow-up. Commit to one W by Sunday. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: plastic-wrap clear.
DO
- Tip Dez from the bus
- Pick one W
- Wear long sleeves Monday
DON'T
- Say 'forever' near a needle
- Explain it at 7:30 drinks
- Answer to Walter
-
Capricorn
Jen will pay the interest.
Jen repays your 2019 twenty at brunch, and at 11:04 you invoice her $4.71 interest, collected in quarters.
Venus, retrograde in your 11th house of friends, brings back old debts, so at 11:00 brunch Jen repays the $20 she borrowed in 2019. Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of other people's money make you bold: at 11:04 you hand her a $4.71 interest invoice, and she pays in quarters you count out loud. Frame the receipt.
DO
- Print the amortization schedule
- Count the quarters aloud
- Frame Jen's receipt
DON'T
- Clap for the twenty
- Accept 'we're even'
- Waive the penny
Venus, retrograde in your 11th house of friends, drags an old friendship debt back into daylight, and Mercury's in there with her, taking minutes. At 11:00 brunch, Jen will slide a twenty across the table: the $20 she borrowed for parking in March of 2019. Everyone will clap. You will not clap. You'll be calculating.
Mars and Jupiter sit in your 8th house of other people's money, and Jupiter inflates everything, including what you're owed. At 11:04 you'll hand Jen an invoice for $4.71 in interest, compounded monthly, with an amortization schedule you printed last night because you knew. Mars trines cranky, backpedaling Saturn, your ruler, so it'll go smoothly: she'll pay in quarters, and you'll count them on the table, out loud, while the eggs Benedict go cold.
The Moon is in your sign, squaring Saturn in your 4th house of home and the past, so tonight, alone in your kitchen, you'll stack eighteen quarters, two dimes and a penny into a little tower and feel a warmth you'll file under other income. Today's order: frame the receipt, and mail Jen a thank-you note with a late-fee advisory for next time.
DO
- Print the amortization schedule
- Count the quarters aloud
- Frame Jen's receipt
DON'T
- Clap for the twenty
- Accept 'we're even'
- Waive the penny
Your scarf will cost $1,140.
You knit a scarf for fun at 9:30, and by 4:30 it costs $1,140 at your billable rate.
A business-casual Moon in your sign asks what you do for fun, so at 9:30 you start knitting a scarf just for you. By 1:15 you've registered Purl Capital LLC, and at 4:30 you price eleven inches at your billable rate: $1,140. You can't afford to give it to yourself. Wear it to dinner and don't mention the LLC.
DO
- Knit without the timer
- Wear the scarf to dinner
- Leave the yarn unbudgeted
DON'T
- Invoice yourself for needles
- Register Purl Capital LLC
- Mention the LLC before salad
Today's material: a business-casual First Quarter Moon is sitting in your sign, squared by Saturn, and it's asking you a simple therapeutic question: what do you do for fun? At 9:30, to prove a point to nobody, you'll buy a skein of oatmeal-colored yarn and two bamboo needles at Michaels and sit down to knit a scarf. Just for you. Just because.
By 11:00 you'll have a time-tracking app running. By 1:15 you'll have registered Purl Capital LLC, drafted a five-year growth plan and invoiced yourself for needles. At 4:30 you'll finish eleven inches and run the numbers at your billable rate: this scarf now costs $1,140. You cannot afford to give it to yourself. You'll file it in a drawer marked INVENTORY and mean it.
Tonight what comes up for you is a deep, Saturn-shaped suspicion that rest is just an unbilled line item. The scarf will not argue; the scarf is inventory. Today's instruction: wear it to dinner and tell no one what it cost. You'll make it as far as the salad before you mention the LLC.
DO
- Knit without the timer
- Wear the scarf to dinner
- Leave the yarn unbudgeted
DON'T
- Invoice yourself for needles
- Register Purl Capital LLC
- Mention the LLC before salad
Your date will demand equity.
You bring a printed agenda to your 7:00 first date, and by 9:31 Danielle demands equity in your weekends.
At 7:00 you show up to a first date with Danielle at Osteria Lena carrying a printed agenda with a 'mutual goals' section. She asks for a pen. By 8:40 she's marked it up and countered: four-date vesting, a cliff at date two, appetizers on you forever. At 9:31 she asks for equity in your weekends. Countersign nothing before Monday.
DO
- Print two copies of the agenda
- Cover the appetizers
- Respect the markup
DON'T
- Countersign anything tonight
- Contest the cliff at date two
- Ask HR to review her counteroffer
With the Moon in your sign, romance is in the air, and you will treat it like a quarterly review. At 7:00 at Osteria Lena you meet Danielle for a first date carrying a printed agenda: introductions, ten minutes; background, fifteen; 'mutual goals,' twenty; Q&A. She will read it twice and ask for a pen.
By 8:40 red-pen prodigy Danielle has marked up your agenda and slid back a counteroffer. A second date is on the table, contingent on a four-date vesting schedule, a cliff at date two and you covering appetizers in perpetuity. You will respect this more than anything anyone has ever said to you. You will also feel faint.
At 9:30 you shake on it in the parking lot, and at 9:31 she asks for equity in your weekends. At 11:15 you open a spreadsheet titled DANIELLE_v2 and give dessert its own tab. Compatibility: high with anyone who negotiates harder than you, and tonight that's someone. Countersign nothing before Monday. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: redline red.
DO
- Print two copies of the agenda
- Cover the appetizers
- Respect the markup
DON'T
- Countersign anything tonight
- Contest the cliff at date two
- Ask HR to review her counteroffer
-
Aquarius
Otis will monetize your gambit.
Otis beats your self-invented chess opening eleven times for $220, and by 5:00 his sign advertises you.
Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 5th house of games, so at 1:00 you bring your self-invented king-first opening to Riverside Park. Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house of open enemies deliver Otis, who beats it in six moves, eleven times, for $220. By 5:00 his cardboard sign says 'BEAT THE GAMBIT GUY.' Return next Saturday; he's priced you in.
DO
- Move the king first, proudly
- Bring exact change
- Return next Saturday at 1:00
DON'T
- Explain why it doesn't count
- Take Otis's advice
- Ask for a cut of churros
Contrarian-in-chief Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of games, and it trines Pluto in your own sign, which gives your worst idea real power. At 1:00 you'll stroll into Riverside Park with the chess opening you invented in the shower, the Decentralized Gambit, which moves the king first on principle.
Mars and Jupiter are in Leo in your 7th house of open enemies, and today that enemy is Otis, who has played $20 speed chess on the bench by the fountain since 1988. He'll beat the Gambit in six moves. You'll explain why that doesn't count, then pay. Then you'll do it again. By game four Otis will have a new cardboard sign: 'BEAT THE GAMBIT GUY, $20.' By 5:00 you'll have lost eleven games and $220.
Venus, retrograde in your 10th house of reputation, squares Pluto, so the sign works: by 4:30 there's a line of strangers waiting to beat you and a guy selling churros to the line. Pluto in your sign says you'll call this a movement. Today's order: return next Saturday at 1:00 sharp, because Otis has already priced you in.
DO
- Move the king first, proudly
- Bring exact change
- Return next Saturday at 1:00
DON'T
- Explain why it doesn't count
- Take Otis's advice
- Ask for a cut of churros
Moth Ledger will sell minivans.
Moth Ledger sells a Honda Odyssey at 3:20, you disown them by 4:00, and Gail arrives wearing their shirt.
Pushy destiny GPS the North Node sits in your sign, so at 3:20 Moth Ledger, a band with nine monthly listeners, four of them you, starts selling the Honda Odyssey. By 4:00 you've disowned them in a 600-word post. At 9:15 neighbor Gail shows up in a Moth Ledger shirt calling you a fellow fan. Say yes to Gail.
DO
- Watch the whole commercial
- Keep the tote right-side out
- Say yes to Gail
DON'T
- Post 'On Selling Out'
- Hunt bands that haven't formed
- Tell Gail you were there first
Today's material: pushy destiny GPS the North Node and grim little Pluto are both camped in your sign, which in session we'd frame as a confrontation with whatever you think makes you you. At 3:20, while you sit in a sports bar ironically not watching college football, Moth Ledger, a band with nine monthly listeners, four of them you, will start playing over a commercial for the Honda Odyssey.
By 4:00 you'll have disowned them in a 600-word post titled 'On Selling Out,' turned your tote bag inside out, and started searching for a band so obscure it hasn't formed yet. This is what we call an identity built on negative space. The moment anyone else stands in it, you have to move.
At 9:15 your neighbor Gail will knock, wearing a Moth Ledger shirt she ordered at 3:45, and tell you she's been hearing them through your wall for years and finally looked it up. She'll call you a fellow fan. She'll ask if you want to go to their show. Today's instruction: say yes to Gail. Your uniqueness will survive one evening of company.
DO
- Watch the whole commercial
- Keep the tote right-side out
- Say yes to Gail
DON'T
- Post 'On Selling Out'
- Hunt bands that haven't formed
- Tell Gail you were there first
You'll win Best Mailbox tonight.
You go to Kendra's party as late-stage capitalism, explain it eleven times, and win Best Mailbox at 11:30.
At 8:00 you arrive at Kendra's Halloween party in a blue cardboard box with a slot, dressed as 'late-stage capitalism devouring the commons,' and explain it eleven times by 8:40. A guy dressed as a hot dog drops his electric bill in you. At 11:30 you win Best Mailbox and a $25 Olive Garden card. Accept it and say nothing.
DO
- Accept the Olive Garden card
- Deliver the hot dog's bill
- Paint a flag on the side
DON'T
- Start at 1600s pastureland
- Explain yourself to the pirate
- Give a speech about breadsticks
A costume party is in your stars, and you will arrive dressed as a concept. At 8:00 you walk into Kendra's Halloween party in a cardboard box painted blue with a slot cut in the front, which, as you will explain to eleven people by 8:40, is 'late-stage capitalism devouring the commons.'
Romance is in the air at 9:15, when a sexy pirate leans in and asks what you are, and you start with the enclosure of English pastureland in the 1600s. The pirate is gone before the 1700s. A Taurus dressed as a hot dog asks if you take letters, you tell him the postal service is the last socialist institution standing, and he drops his electric bill in your slot.
At 11:30 Kendra announces the costume winners, and you take first place: Best Mailbox. The prize is a $25 Olive Garden gift card, the most corporate object ever laminated. You will begin a speech about it. Nobody listens, because the pirate is back. Accept the gift card and say nothing. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: postal-truck blue.
DO
- Accept the Olive Garden card
- Deliver the hot dog's bill
- Paint a flag on the side
DON'T
- Start at 1600s pastureland
- Explain yourself to the pirate
- Give a speech about breadsticks
-
Pisces
You'll sleep through three gongs.
Noor takes you to a 10:00 sound bath, you sleep through three sessions, and Willow bills all three.
Your ruler, Neptune, is retrograde in your 2nd house of money beside Saturn, which is fog and the bill in one envelope. At 10:00 Noor takes you to Willow's sound bath; by the second gong you're asleep, and you drift through the noon and 2:00 sessions too. At 3:40 Willow wakes you with a card reader: $135. Tip the gong.
DO
- Thank the gong by name
- Tip Willow anyway
- Book the four o'clock
DON'T
- Set an alarm
- Lie down near a bolster
- Ask the gong for its number
The Moon in Capricorn lights your 11th house of friends, and Capricorn-Moon friends book things. At 10:00 Noor will march you into Willow's studio on Fifth for a $45 sound bath, because she's decided you need grounding, which is the kindest word anyone's ever used for staring at the same puddle since Tuesday.
Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of health routines make the wellness enormous. By the second gong you'll be asleep on a bolster. You'll sleep through the 10:00, the noon and the 2:00, Noor will tiptoe out around 11:15, and at 3:40 you'll wake to Willow standing over you holding a card reader.
Foggy, backpedaling Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of money beside Saturn, also retrograde, which is the fog and the bill arriving in one envelope. Willow will charge you for all three sessions, $135, and you'll tip, because Venus retrograde in your 9th house of big beliefs has convinced you the gong was talking to you personally. Today's order: pay, thank the gong by name, and book the four o'clock.
DO
- Thank the gong by name
- Tip Willow anyway
- Book the four o'clock
DON'T
- Set an alarm
- Lie down near a bolster
- Ask the gong for its number
Lane four will become therapy.
Ines asks how you are at 11:30, you answer for twenty-two minutes, and lane four becomes group therapy.
Foggy Neptune is retrograde in your money house, so at 11:30 cashier Ines asks how you are and you tell her, for twenty-two minutes. By noon lane four is a support circle, manager Ray opens lane five as an exit, and you've paid for a stranger's tortilla chips. You leave the peas on the belt. Next time say 'good.'
DO
- Answer 'good' and stop
- Take the peas home
- Let Ray's lane five work
DON'T
- Mention the substitute teacher
- Buy the chip man's chips
- Hug the conveyor belt goodbye
Today's material: foggy, backward-drifting Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of money and possessions, which clinically means the border between your wallet and everyone else's is more of a vibe. At 11:30 in lane four at Kroger, a cashier named Ines will scan your frozen peas and ask, the way cashiers do, 'How are you?'
You will tell her. All of it. The recurring dream about the swimming pool, the thing a substitute teacher said to you in 2004, the way October light makes you feel like a Polaroid somebody forgot in a drawer. Twenty-two minutes. By 11:45 the man behind you, holding a single bag of tortilla chips, will start talking about his brother. By noon the line will be standing in a loose circle, and the manager, Ray, will open lane five just to give people an exit.
At 12:20 you'll pay for tortilla-chip man's chips, because retrograde Neptune says money is just feelings with a barcode, and for the cat food of the woman behind him, because she cried first. Tonight what comes up for you is that you left the peas on the belt. Today's instruction: next time Ines asks, say 'good' and let the silence carry the rest.
DO
- Answer 'good' and stop
- Take the peas home
- Let Ray's lane five work
DON'T
- Mention the substitute teacher
- Buy the chip man's chips
- Hug the conveyor belt goodbye
Aquarium tour will feature you.
You stare at the jellyfish tank from 11:00 until 3:30, when docent Rhonda adds you to the tour as a specimen.
At 11:00 you lock eyes with a moon jelly you've privately named Clarence and start breathing in sync. By 3:30 docent Rhonda has added you to the school tour: 'a rare freshwater specimen, often found drifting.' Mateo, a fourth grader, taps your forehead, and someone feeds you a Goldfish cracker. Go home when they kill the tank lights.
DO
- Breathe at your own pace
- Text your friends back
- Accept the Goldfish cracker
DON'T
- Name the jellyfish
- Stand on the tour route
- Let Rhonda laminate your placard
A short trip to the aquarium is in your stars, and you will not be coming home on time. At 11:00 you stop at the jellyfish tank in the Deep Blue Hall, the jellies pulse slowly, and you will pulse slowly back. By 1:00 you have not moved, blinked or sat down. You have, however, started breathing in sync with a moon jelly you've privately named Clarence.
Docent Rhonda will lead the 2:00 school tour past you twice before adding you to the script. 'And here,' she says at 3:30, gesturing, 'a rare freshwater specimen, often found drifting, rarely found answering texts.' A fourth grader named Mateo taps your forehead. Twenty-two children are told not to feed you, and one does anyway: a Goldfish cracker, which you accept.
At 5:00 your phone buzzes with nine messages asking where you are, and you will not know how to answer, because you are the exhibit now. At 6:00 Rhonda dims the hall and leaves a little placard at your feet. Romance is in the air: Clarence has drifted closer. Go home when they kill the tank lights. Lucky number: 22. Lucky color: jellyfish-tank violet.
DO
- Breathe at your own pace
- Text your friends back
- Accept the Goldfish cracker
DON'T
- Name the jellyfish
- Stand on the tour route
- Let Rhonda laminate your placard
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-17 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 24.3° Libra |
|---|---|
| Moon | 13.8° Capricorn |
| Mercury | 18.5° Scorpio |
| Venus | 4.5° Scorpio ℞ |
| Mars | 11.1° Leo |
| Jupiter | 22.4° Leo |
| Saturn | 10.3° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 5.1° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.4° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.8° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.7°, easy)
- Mars trine Saturn (0.8°, flowing)
- Venus square Pluto (1.4°, tense)
- Sun sextile Jupiter (2.0°, easy)
- Uranus trine Pluto (2.1°, flowing)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Mercury square Jupiter (3.8°, tense)
- Moon square Saturn (3.6°, 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 Saturday, October 17, 2026.