FILED MONDAY, OCTOBER 19, 2026

ROAST-O-SCOPE

Libra season
First Quarter in Aquarius
Moon into Aquarius 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
Trevor will invoice the bookcase.

At 6:04 you'll rip an escape room's bookcase off the wall, Trevor will invoice it, and the exit was unlocked.
Hall-monitor Saturn sits retrograde in your 1st house, and Mars, your ruler, lounges in your 5th house of fun opposite tonight's Moon. So at 6:00 the group chat's escape room meets a battering ram in a fleece vest. At 6:04 you'll tear the fake bookcase off the wall. The exit was unlocked; it opens inward. Trevor invoices $180. Pull first, you rhino.
DO
Pull every door first
Read the rules laminate
Let Phil badge you in
DON'T
Hunt for hidden levers
Shoulder-check the exit
Tell Trevor the bookcase started it
Hall-monitor Saturn is retrograde in Aries in your 1st house, sitting on your chest like a cat that pays no rent, and foggy, backpedaling Neptune is retrograde right beside it. So when you charge into Monday at 8:00 sharp, the badge reader at the side door will reject you four times, and a man named Phil will let you in out of pity.

Tonight the Moon in your 11th house of friends opposes Mars, your ruler, who is sprawled in Leo in your 5th house of fun beside Jupiter. Translation: the group chat books an escape room for 6:00, and you go in like a battering ram in a fleece vest. At 6:04 you'll rip the fake bookcase off the wall hunting for a lever. There is no lever. The exit was unlocked the whole time. It opens inward. You were pushing.

Mars trine Saturn is the one aspect in the sky that rewards patience, which is why it's wasted on you. Game master Trevor will invoice the bookcase at $180, and your friends will forward you the room fee for a game they never got to play. From now on, at every door you meet, pull first. Then wait. Then pull again, you rhino.
DO
Pull every door first
Read the rules laminate
Let Phil badge you in
DON'T
Hunt for hidden levers
Shoulder-check the exit
Tell Trevor the bookcase started it
You'll win a stranger's cleaning.

You race an oblivious stranger to his dentist at 8:12, win, and get your own teeth cleaned for it.
Saturn, retrograde in your first house, brings impulse control as today's material. At 8:12 a stranger in a fleece vest steps off the curb a half-stride ahead of you, and you declare a race he doesn't know about. You win. He was walking to his dentist. By 9:15 you're reclined under the light while Paulo scrapes your molars, and your 10:00 starts without you. Tonight, let a stranger reach a door first.
DO
Let the fleece vest win
Floss before 8:12
Tell Ruth where you were
DON'T
Speed up at the crosswalk
Fill out Annette's clipboard
Ask Paulo for a rematch
Disappointed hall monitor Saturn is sitting retrograde in your first house today, so the material we're working with is impulse control. Let's see how that goes. At 8:12 a man in a gray fleece vest will step off the curb half a stride ahead of you, and something ancient and stupid in your brainstem will declare a race. He will not know he's in it.

You'll match him for three blocks, then four, then straight past your own office, because stopping means he wins, and your inner child has never lost gracefully, mostly because nobody ever let the little shit lose. At 8:31 he'll turn into a dentist's office and you'll get through the door first. Victory. Receptionist Annette will hand you a clipboard, and rather than explain, you'll fill it out. By 9:15 you'll be reclined under the light while a hygienist named Paulo asks about your flossing, which, like this race, you've been lying about.

Your 10:00 will start without you. When you finally arrive, minty and unrepentant, Ruth from ops will ask where you were, and you'll say 'winning,' which is accurate and is also the whole diagnosis. At 6:05 tonight the fleece vest will be waiting at your crosswalk again. Here's your order: let a stranger reach a door before you. Call it exposure therapy.
DO
Let the fleece vest win
Floss before 8:12
Tell Ruth where you were
DON'T
Speed up at the crosswalk
Fill out Annette's clipboard
Ask Paulo for a rematch
Judge will excuse you forever.

At 9:12 you shout 'guilty' during jury selection for a parking-meter case, and Judge Okonkwo excuses you for life.
Jury duty, Monday, and you treat voir dire like a starting gun. At 9:12, before Judge Okonkwo finishes reading the name of a man contesting a parking meter, you stand and shout 'GUILTY.' A stranger touches your elbow; it's the bailiff. By 9:20 you're excused for life, the unexpected windfall the stars promised. Order of the day: let one person finish one sentence.
DO
Wait for the full name
Sit when the bailiff says
Read one clause before signing
DON'T
Shout verdicts during roll call
Race Duane to anything
Cross-examine the parking meter
Monday mails you to jury duty, and you will treat voir dire like the starting gun at a 5K. At 9:12, before robe-wearing hall monitor Judge Okonkwo finishes reading the name of a man contesting a parking meter, you'll stand up and shout 'GUILTY.' A stranger will touch your elbow. The stranger is the bailiff. By 9:20 you'll be excused from jury service for life, which is the unexpected windfall the stars promised, delivered on a form with your photo stapled to it.

Avoid signing contracts. You'll sign three anyway in the courthouse cafeteria, because a stranger named Duane, wearing a Patagonia vest over a second Patagonia vest, says 'first come, first served' about his crypto newsletter and you hear 'race.' Romance is in the air, and the air smells like the metal detector.

At 6:00 you'll brag to the group chat that you got out of jury duty, and Marco, who's been trying for eleven years, will ask how. You'll type 'speed.' Compatibility: low with anyone still mid-sentence. Today's order: let one person, any person, finish one sentence. Lucky number: 0, the minutes of deliberation you required. Lucky color: Bailiff Beige.
DO
Wait for the full name
Sit when the bailiff says
Read one clause before signing
DON'T
Shout verdicts during roll call
Race Duane to anything
Cross-examine the parking meter
Taurus

Apr 20 – May 20 · Earth · ruled by Venus
Ex will leave fed, potless.

Gavin comes at 7:30 for his Le Creuset, and you'll send him home fed on pot roast, without the pot.
Moonwalking Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 7th house of exes, so at 4:15 Gavin texts that he's coming at 7:30 for his orange Le Creuset. You'll start a pot roast in it immediately. Mars and Jupiter in your 4th house make the kitchen a fortress. He leaves fed, potless and unsure who dumped whom. Seconds go in Tupperware. The pot stays.
DO
Start the pot roast early
Keep sitting at the desk
Stock up on Tupperware
DON'T
Wash the pot before 7:42
Surrender the corner desk
Ask Gavin for the lid too
Moonwalking Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house of partners, exes and contracts, which means the past is coming back up the driveway carrying a tote bag. At 4:15 Gavin, who left in 2023, will text that he's swinging by at 7:30 for his orange Le Creuset. You'll read it once, walk to the stove and start a pot roast in it.

Venus squares Pluto in your 10th house of career to within a third of a degree, and the Moon in that house squares Venus too, so work becomes a property dispute. At 11:20 facilities will reassign the corner desk you've sat at since 2022. You will continue to sit at it. By 3:00 the new hire will be working from a folding chair beside you, taking notes.

Mars and Jupiter crowd your 4th house of home, so by the time Gavin knocks at 7:42 the whole house will smell like a strategy. He'll eat two bowls, say thank you, and walk to his car fed, potless and unsure who broke up with whom. Serve the seconds in Tupperware. The pot stays.
DO
Start the pot roast early
Keep sitting at the desk
Stock up on Tupperware
DON'T
Wash the pot before 7:42
Surrender the corner desk
Ask Gavin for the lid too
Terrence will deliver your bread.

The store moves the bread to aisle eleven, and at 5:40 Terrence carries you a loaf in aisle four.
Venus, retrograde and squaring Pluto, says something you love gets relocated without consent. Overnight, your grocery store moves the bread from aisle four to aisle eleven. At 5:15 you'll stand in aisle four, facing dog kibble, refusing to walk seven aisles, until stock boy Terrence carries a sourdough to you at 5:40 like a hostage exchange. You'll ask for a different loaf. Tonight, eat it anyway.
DO
Eat Terrence's sourdough
Thank Terrence by name
Learn where aisle eleven is
DON'T
Drive to the other store
Ask for a different loaf
File a missing-bread report
Your backpedaling ruler Venus is retrograde and squaring Pluto today, the tightest aspect in the sky, which in clinical terms means something you love is about to be relocated without your consent. Before you're up, while you sleep the sleep of the immovable, the night crew at your grocery store will move the bread from aisle four to aisle eleven.

At 5:15 you'll walk to aisle four and find yourself face to face with forty pounds of kibble. You will not walk to aisle eleven. Walking to aisle eleven would mean accepting it, and acceptance is a skill you've refused to learn since they reformulated Cool Ranch. You'll stand there twenty-five minutes, a monument to object constancy, until a stock boy named Terrence carries a sourdough loaf down seven aisles and hands it to you like a hostage exchange. You'll check the date. You'll ask for a different loaf.

At 7:40 your friend Lou will call about weekend plans, and you'll say 'fine' three times before blurting, 'They moved the bread.' Lou will not know what to do with that. Tonight's order: eat the sourdough Terrence carried to you, and do not drive to the other store to see if theirs moved. It did. Everything moves, sweetheart. You're the only thing on Earth that doesn't.
DO
Eat Terrence's sourdough
Thank Terrence by name
Learn where aisle eleven is
DON'T
Drive to the other store
Ask for a different loaf
File a missing-bread report
Mattress King will charge rent.

You nap on a $4,100 showroom mattress at 12:15, sleep through closing, and Mattress King starts charging you rent.
At 12:15 you lie down on the $4,100 Serenity CloudKing at Mattress King, 'just testing,' and you're asleep by 12:16. Corey the salesman sells two bed frames around you; at 5:30 the grate comes down and you don't stir. By Tuesday the store bills you $640 a month, showroom hours enforced, and you find it fair. Order: stay put, which you were doing anyway.
DO
Test the CloudKing thoroughly
Pay Mattress King on time
Respect showroom hours
DON'T
Set an alarm
Read Corey's paperwork
Let customers test your bed
Your Monday lunch break will open its arms at 12:15, and you'll spend it face-down on the $4,100 Serenity CloudKing in the window of Mattress King, 'just testing.' You'll be asleep by 12:16. Commission-starved salesman Corey will try three times to wake you, then drape the demo throw over your legs and sell two bed frames around you. At 5:30 the grate comes down. You will not stir.

An unexpected windfall: you'll wake at 9:40 to the motion alarm, Officer Pruitt's flashlight, and the best damn sleep of your stubborn life. Romance is in the air, and it's between you and a pillow-top. Avoid signing contracts, especially the one Corey slid under your cheek, which you'll sign anyway, eyes closed.

By Tuesday morning Mattress King will be billing you rent: $640 a month, utilities included, showroom hours strictly enforced. Your apartment will notice you're gone around Thursday. Today's order: stay put, which you were doing anyway. Lucky number: 14, the inches of memory foam you now legally occupy. Lucky color: Floor Model Ecru.
DO
Test the CloudKing thoroughly
Pay Mattress King on time
Respect showroom hours
DON'T
Set an alarm
Read Corey's paperwork
Let customers test your bed
Gemini

May 21 – Jun 20 · Air · ruled by Mercury
Aunt Rosa will print shirts.

Aunt Rosa prints thirty T-shirts for your half marathon, and Deb, who heard about your knee, likes the photo.
Fast-talking Mercury squares Jupiter in your 3rd house of texting, so at 9:40 your 'kind of thinking about' the half marathon becomes a family vow. At 2:00 you tell the office you're out of the 5K with 'a knee thing.' At 6:15 Aunt Rosa posts thirty T-shirts with your face on them, and Deb from accounting likes it. Pick one knee.
DO
Pick one knee
Mute the family chat
Practice a convincing limp
DON'T
Say 'kind of' to family
Wear the shirt to work
Limp on alternating legs
Fast-talking Mercury, your ruler, is in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring Jupiter in Leo in your 3rd house of siblings and texting. Jupiter enlarges whatever it touches, and today it touches your thumbs. At 9:40 you'll tell the family group chat you're 'kind of thinking about' the Thanksgiving half marathon. By noon Jupiter will have rounded that up to a vow.

Venus, retrograde, joins Mercury in your 6th house, so at 2:00 you'll tell the office you're sitting out Saturday's charity 5K because of 'a knee thing.' Plot-twist Uranus, retrograde in your own sign, flips your story every time someone new walks in. By 3:30 it's the left knee, then the right knee, and once, briefly, your elbow.

At 6:15 Aunt Rosa will post a photo to the family chat: thirty neon T-shirts with your face on them and RUN, BABY, RUN across the back. Saturn retrograde in your 11th house of friends means Deb from accounting is already in that chat somehow. She'll like the photo at 6:16. Pick one knee and limp on it for everyone.
DO
Pick one knee
Mute the family chat
Practice a convincing limp
DON'T
Say 'kind of' to family
Wear the shirt to work
Limp on alternating legs
Legal will approve your jingle.

At 2:30 two meetings unmute you at once, and by 3:15 legal approves your mop jingle.
Mercury squares Jupiter in your house of daily work, so today's material is parts work, literally. At 2:00 you'll join two meetings at once, cameras off. At 2:30 both call on you, you answer each with the other's material, and legal hears you sing a jingle for the new mop. By 3:15 they approve it. Tonight, pick one self and send it to bed early.
DO
Attend exactly one meeting
Label the laptop and phone
Copyright the mop jingle
DON'T
Unmute anything at 2:30
Answer Yusuf's question
Sing legal the second verse
Lightning-fingered snitch Mercury, your ruler, is grinding through your house of daily work and squaring Jupiter, which means today's material is what therapists call parts work and what your coworkers call 'where the hell is Gemini.' At 2:00 you'll join two Monday meetings at once, marketing on the laptop, legal on the phone, cameras off, both of you nodding.

At 2:30 both meetings will call on you in the same breath. You'll unmute both and answer each with the other one's material. Legal will receive eleven confident minutes on a jingle for the new mop, including the hook, which you will sing. Marketing, meanwhile, will get your considered thoughts on indemnification. Nobody will stop either of you, because both pitches are good, which has always been the most dangerous thing about you.

By 3:15 legal will approve the jingle and marketing will add the indemnity clause as a second verse. At 4:00 your boss, Yusuf, will ask which meeting you were actually in, and both of your parts will say 'the other one.' Tonight's order: pick one self and send it to bed early. The other can stay up, but it's not allowed to text anybody.
DO
Attend exactly one meeting
Label the laptop and phone
Copyright the mop jingle
DON'T
Unmute anything at 2:30
Answer Yusuf's question
Sing legal the second verse
Boss will request the impression.

You pocket-dial boss Patrice mid-impression of Patrice, and by 2:00 she makes you perform it at the all-hands.
At 8:20 your phone pocket-dials your boss Patrice while you do your famous Patrice impression for the carpool, all thirty-eight minutes of 'circle back.' She doesn't fire you. Worse: at 2:00 she makes you perform it at the all-hands, and you end up arguing with her and yourself onstage. Order: lock your phone before you open your mouth.
DO
Lock your phone at 8:19
Rehearse the synergy sneeze
Charge Patrice's boss upfront
DON'T
Do Patrice for Patrice
Answer the pizza place in character
Do Patrice's life coach next
At 8:20 your phone will pocket-dial your boss, Patrice, from inside your jacket while you perform your famous Patrice impression for the carpool. She'll hear all thirty-eight minutes: the throat-clear, the 'let's circle back,' the way she says 'synergy' like she's sneezing it. At 8:58 a stranger's voice will come out of your pocket and ask, 'Is that the whole set?' The stranger is Patrice.

She won't fire you. Worse. At 2:00 she'll make you do it live at the all-hands, because her life coach says she needs to 'see herself.' You'll do Patrice for twenty minutes, then Patrice doing you, then argue with both of them, and ninety coworkers won't know who to clap for. An unexpected windfall: Patrice's boss books you for the holiday party.

Tonight the pizza place will call to confirm your order, you'll answer in Patrice's voice out of pure muscle memory, and they'll give Patrice the free garlic knots you've never once been offered. Compatibility: high with whoever you're impersonating. Today's order: lock your phone before you open your mouth. Lucky number: 2, the faces you'll need by noon. Lucky color: Pocket-Lint Gray.
DO
Lock your phone at 8:19
Rehearse the synergy sneeze
Charge Patrice's boss upfront
DON'T
Do Patrice for Patrice
Answer the pizza place in character
Do Patrice's life coach next
Cancer

Jun 21 – Jul 22 · Water · ruled by Moon
Carol will change the password.

Your ex's mother changes the Netflix password at 8:10, and by 10:15 you're paying for her family plan.
Your ruler, the Moon, sits fused to Pluto in your 8th house of other people's money, so at 8:10 Carol, mother of someone you dated in 2019, finally changes the Netflix password. You draft a 340-word goodbye. She calls at 8:40. By 10:15 you're paying for her family plan and invited to Thanksgiving. Sit next to Carol. Never unpause bread week.
DO
Send the 340-word goodbye
Pick up at 8:40
Bake Carol a pie
DON'T
Delete the Cozy Crab profile
Ask who else she's sharing with
Watch bread week without Carol
Your ruler, the moody, tide-yanking Moon, slipped into Aquarius overnight and is loitering in your 8th house of other people's money, fused to Pluto, the planet of things ending forever. At 8:10 tonight, Carol, the mother of someone you dated in 2019, will finally change the Netflix password. Your profile, Cozy Crab, still has Great British Bake Off paused halfway through bread week.

Backpedaling Venus is retrograde in Scorpio in your 5th house of romance, squaring that Moon, so this lands like a breakup with a family you were never technically in. By 8:25 you'll have drafted Carol a goodbye text of 340 words. At 8:40 she'll call. You'll talk for ninety-one minutes, mostly about her gutters, and both cry once.

Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd house of money make you generous at the worst possible hour, so by 10:15 you'll be paying for her entire family plan. She'll put you down as the account holder, rename your profile Sweetheart, and invite you to Thanksgiving. The one you dated will be there. Bring a pie, sit next to Carol, and never unpause bread week.
DO
Send the 340-word goodbye
Pick up at 8:40
Bake Carol a pie
DON'T
Delete the Cozy Crab profile
Ask who else she's sharing with
Watch bread week without Carol
Greg will move eleven feet.

Greg moves desks eleven feet away, and at 3:30 your farewell toast for him collapses into tears.
With the Moon, your ruler, gone cold in Aquarius, the material is anxious attachment. At 9:20 Greg from billing gets moved to the desk by the window, eleven feet away. By 11:00 you've bought a sheet cake, and at 3:30 your farewell toast dissolves at 'when Greg first sat down.' By 5:00 he's turned his chair away. Tonight, let Greg go. He's right there.
DO
Cut the cake by 3:30
Wave back at Greg once
Hand off the slideshow
DON'T
Stroll over at 4:40
Start the toast with 'when'
Mail Greg a postcard
The sky's night-light, your ruler, has moved into chilly, detached Aquarius today, the astrological equivalent of a cat on a windowsill: technically present, emotionally elsewhere. So the material we're working with is attachment, specifically the anxious kind. At 9:20 facilities will announce that Greg from billing is moving to the empty desk by the window. It is eleven feet away. You will hear 'moving.'

By 11:00 you'll have bought a sheet cake that says WE'LL MISS YOU GREG in blue gel, passed a card around the whole floor, and started a slideshow called 'Greg: The Desk Years.' At 3:30 you'll give a toast. You'll get as far as 'when Greg first sat down' before your voice goes. Greg, holding a stapler and a monitor, will not know where to look. Then he'll carry them eleven feet and wave.

At 4:15 you'll stroll over 'just to see how he's settling in.' Again at 4:40. By 5:00 Greg will have turned his chair to face the window, which you'll take personally, and correctly. Tonight's order: let Greg go. He's right there. He has always been right there. That's what makes this so embarrassing for everyone, Greg especially.
DO
Cut the cake by 3:30
Wave back at Greg once
Hand off the slideshow
DON'T
Stroll over at 4:40
Start the toast with 'when'
Mail Greg a postcard
DMV will laminate your sobbing.

Lorraine at the DMV says 'big smile' at 10:40, and you get a sobbing license photo good until 2034.
At 10:40 Lorraine at the DMV says 'big smile,' exactly like your kindergarten photographer, and the flash catches your chin collapsing. It's laminated. It's good until 2034. By 7:15 bartender Theo cards you, studies it, and slides over free mozzarella sticks without a word. Order: when someone says 'smile,' think about tax software.
DO
Think about tax software
Request a retake, firmly
Accept Theo's mozzarella sticks
DON'T
Remember picture day
Look directly into the flash
Frame the DMV receipt
At 10:40 the DMV will call B-117, and you'll sit for your license photo. Lorraine behind the camera, a woman who has seen ten thousand faces and loved none of them, will say 'big smile,' exactly what your kindergarten photographer said, and you'll remember that picture day, that sweater, that juice box you never got to finish. The flash will catch the precise moment your chin collapses. It will be laminated. It will be valid for eight years.

Romance is in the air: at 7:15 a bartender named Theo will card you, look at the photo, look at you, and slide over a free basket of mozzarella sticks without a word. Two strangers will ask if you're okay. From now until 2034, every liquor store, rental counter and TSA agent in America will ask the same thing.

At 9:00 you'll frame the DMV receipt, because it was there for you. Compatibility: high with Lorraine, who will tear up a little too, then call B-118. Today's order: when someone says 'smile,' think about tax software. Lucky number: 2034, the year your face dries. Lucky color: Laminate Blur.
DO
Think about tax software
Request a retake, firmly
Accept Theo's mozzarella sticks
DON'T
Remember picture day
Look directly into the flash
Frame the DMV receipt
Leo

Jul 23 – Aug 22 · Fire · ruled by Sun
You'll trend as Suspicious Lingerer.

You'll strut past the Delgados' doorbell camera nine times, and by 5:15 the neighborhood app calls you Suspicious Lingerer.
Your ruler, the Sun, sits in your 3rd house of neighbors, sextile Jupiter in your own sign, so at 7:50 you discover the Delgados' new doorbell camera and walk past it nine times by noon, each pass slower. At 5:15 the neighborhood app posts you: 'Suspicious Lingerer, Very Confident.' You'll want to reply with a better angle. Don't.
DO
Walk past it once
Use the back alley
Name who recognized you
DON'T
Wave at the doorbell
Post the better angle
Ask the Delgados for footage
Your ruler, the spotlight-hogging Sun, is in Libra in your 3rd house of neighbors and short walks, sextile Jupiter, which sits in your sign with Mars like two bodyguards your ego hired off Craigslist. At 7:50 you'll notice the Delgados next door have installed a doorbell camera facing the sidewalk. You will walk past it nine times before noon, each pass with better posture and a slower turn of the head.

Mercury in your 4th house of home squares Jupiter, so everything you say indoors comes out twelve percent bigger than what happened. At 1:00 you'll announce to your own kitchen that you were 'recognized on the street today.' The Moon in your 7th house of partners opposes Mars, so the first person you repeat it to will ask, flatly, by whom.

At 5:15 the neighborhood app will post a still of you mid-stride, chin up, captioned 'Suspicious Lingerer, Very Confident. Anyone Know This Person?' Four hundred neighbors will see it. You'll screenshot it eleven times and set one as your lock screen. Mars trine Saturn hands you the stamina to reply with a better angle. Do not reply with a better angle.
DO
Walk past it once
Use the back alley
Name who recognized you
DON'T
Wave at the doorbell
Post the better angle
Ask the Delgados for footage
You'll screen-share your own face.

At 10:06 you screen-share your own self-view to three hundred coworkers and fix your hair nine times.
Mars and Jupiter crowd your first house, so today's material is the self, your favorite subject. At the 10:00 all-hands you'll pin your own tile, and at 10:06 you'll accidentally screen-share it to three hundred people for forty minutes: chin tilts, a test smolder, the same hair fixed nine times. At 10:46 Pradeep says you're sharing. Tonight, turn off self-view.
DO
Turn off self-view
Rehearse the smolder offline
Thank Pradeep publicly
DON'T
Pin your own tile
Ask 'sharing what?'
Request the recording
Hothead Mars and buffet-king Jupiter are both parked in your first house today, so the material we're working with is the self, which you were already working with full-time, overtime, weekends. At 10:00 the Monday all-hands will start, three hundred faces on video, and you'll pin your own tile. For grounding, you'll tell yourself.

At 10:06 you'll go to share your quarterly slide and share your self-view instead, full screen, to all three hundred. For the next forty minutes, while the CFO reads revenue figures in a voice like a dial tone, the company will watch you tilt your chin, test a smolder, and fix the same piece of hair nine times. At 10:22 you'll mouth 'yes' at yourself. At 10:31 you'll try out a new laugh. The chat will go very quiet, then very fucking loud.

At 10:46 an analyst named Pradeep will finally unmute to say, 'Hey, I think you're sharing,' and you'll say, 'Sharing what?' while looking directly at it. By lunch the clip will have a name in the company Slack. The name will be yours, used as a verb. Tonight's order: turn off self-view. Not forever. Just long enough to find out whether you exist without it.
DO
Turn off self-view
Rehearse the smolder offline
Thank Pradeep publicly
DON'T
Pin your own tile
Ask 'sharing what?'
Request the recording
Your round will cost $1,940.

At 6:30 you buy Murphy's a round, missing the banner for the pipefitters' meeting, and the tab hits $1,940.
At 6:30 you walk into Murphy's, raise one hand, and announce 'This round's on me' without reading the banner: PIPEFITTERS LOCAL 12 ANNUAL MEETING, 140 members, zero light beers. By 6:45 they're chanting your name off your credit card; by 9:10 the tab is $1,940 and you tip twenty-five percent. Order: read the banner before the speech.
DO
Read the banner first
Accept Big Lou's brotherhood
Hydrate between speeches
DON'T
Explain pensions to pipefitters
Request repayment, ever
Say 'next round's on me too'
At 6:30 you'll walk into Murphy's, see a crowd, and do the thing your ego has been rehearsing in the shower since puberty: raise one hand and announce, 'This round's on me.' You will not read the banner. The banner says PIPEFITTERS LOCAL 12 ANNUAL MEETING. There are 140 pipefitters, and not one of them has ever ordered a light beer.

An unexpected windfall of love: by 6:45 they'll be chanting your name, which they got off your credit card, and hoisting you onto a folding table, where you'll give a nine-minute speech about pensions you know nothing about. A forearm-tattooed stranger named Big Lou will call you 'brother' and mean it. At 9:10 the tab will come to $1,940, and you'll tip twenty-five percent so the bartender remembers you forever.

At 11:50 tonight you'll open your banking app, see the number, and request repayment from nobody, because asking would kill the legend. Compatibility: high with organized labor, catastrophic with your checking account. Today's order: read the banner before the speech. Lucky number: 1,940. Lucky color: Hi-Vis Orange.
DO
Read the banner first
Accept Big Lou's brotherhood
Hydrate between speeches
DON'T
Explain pensions to pipefitters
Request repayment, ever
Say 'next round's on me too'
Virgo

Aug 23 – Sep 22 · Earth · ruled by Mercury
Neighbor will open the closet.

At 4:20 Tess opens your hall closet, labeled MISC (TEMPORARY) since 2021, and by 6:10 the block has photos.
Your ruler Mercury squares Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, and secrets under Jupiter only get bigger. At 4:20 neighbor Tess asks for a paper towel and opens your hall closet: forty-one tangled cables, an unopened bread machine and a label in your perfect handwriting reading MISC (TEMPORARY), dated 2021. By 6:10 the block has the photo. Fix the label: PERMANENT.
DO
Hide the paper towels
Relabel it MISC (PERMANENT)
Keep the bread machine sealed
DON'T
Answer the door at 4:20
Draft the Gantt chart
Organize the tote bags into tote bags
Your fussy little ruler Mercury is in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors and drop-ins, squaring Jupiter, which is hiding in your 12th house of secrets with Mars for company. Jupiter in the 12th means the secret gets bigger. At 4:20 your neighbor Tess will stop by 'for five minutes,' ask for a paper towel, and open the hall closet before you can cross the room.

Inside: forty-one tangled charging cables, a bread machine still in shrink-wrap, 186 tote bags and a label, in your own immaculate handwriting, reading MISC (TEMPORARY), dated March 2021. Mars in your 12th house means you'll want to scream and won't, so it comes out as a left-eyelid twitch that lasts until dinner.

The Moon crosses your 6th house of daily routine, so you'll spend the evening building a color-coded closet plan with four phases and a Gantt chart, none of which you'll execute. At 6:10 Tess will text the photo to the block's group chat with one word: 'Wow.' Venus retrograde in your 3rd house guarantees three neighbors reply with a heart. Shut the door and fix the label: MISC (PERMANENT).
DO
Hide the paper towels
Relabel it MISC (PERMANENT)
Keep the bread machine sealed
DON'T
Answer the door at 4:20
Draft the Gantt chart
Organize the tote bags into tote bags
You'll recall your own report.

Renée praises your report at 3:00, you list eleven errors she missed, and by 3:40 it's recalled company-wide.
Mercury squares Jupiter, so your inner critic gets a promotion. At 3:00 Renée says 'Great work on this,' and instead of thanking her you list eleven errors she never noticed in a report she'd already forwarded to the regional VP. By 3:40 it's recalled company-wide, and at 4:30 Tucson finds a twelfth. Tonight, say 'thank you' and stop.
DO
Say 'thank you' at 3:00
Let the em dash live
Mute the Tucson thread
DON'T
Start a sentence with 'Actually'
Open the recall email
Reply-all with a thirteenth
Tiny clipboard Mercury, your ruler, is squaring cosmic hype man Jupiter, and in session terms that means your inner critic is getting a promotion today. It's been angling for one for years. At 3:00 your boss, Renée, will stop by your desk and say the four words your entire nervous system was built to reject: 'Great work on this.'

You will not say thank you. You'll say, 'Actually, there are a few things,' and list eleven: a misaligned table on page six, an em dash where a hyphen belongs, a chart legend you've hated since Thursday. Renée had noticed none of them. Renée had forwarded it to the regional VP at 2:45. By 3:40 she'll send a company-wide recall, subject line 'Please disregard,' and four hundred people will open your report for the first time, specifically to hunt for what's wrong with it.

At 4:30 someone in the Tucson office will reply-all with a twelfth error, one you missed, and you'll think about it until bedtime and possibly into Wednesday. Tonight's order: the next time anyone compliments you, say 'thank you' and stop talking. Two words. You can always edit them later.
DO
Say 'thank you' at 3:00
Let the em dash live
Mute the Tucson thread
DON'T
Start a sentence with 'Actually'
Open the recall email
Reply-all with a thirteenth
You'll inherit the walking tour.

You correct guide Bartholomew fourteen times by 12:50, and he hands you the tricorn hat and leaves.
At 12:14 on the free lunchtime walking tour, guide Bartholomew says the courthouse went up in 1887. It was 1889, and you say so, then thirteen more times, citing a county PDF. At 12:50 he hands you his tricorn hat and the tip jar and walks into a Chipotle. Fourteen Ohioans turn to you. Order: let one wrong date live.
DO
Let 1887 slide, once
Count the tip jar
Answer your actual job
DON'T
Pull up the county PDF
Correct the plaque
Fact-check yourself at the fountain
At 12:10 you'll join the free Historic Downtown lunchtime walking tour 'for the fresh air,' and at 12:14 tricorn-hatted local treasure Bartholomew will say the courthouse went up in 1887. It was 1889. You'll say so. You'll say so thirteen more times between the courthouse and the old bank, citing the plaque, the cornerstone and a county archive PDF you pull up while walking.

At 12:50, mid-sentence about the fountain, Bartholomew will hand you the hat and the tip jar and walk straight into a Chipotle. Fourteen tourists from Ohio will turn to you. A stranger will ask where the bathroom is, and you'll have three sources. At 1:30 your actual job will email asking where the hell you are. You'll be at the fountain, correcting yourself.

An unexpected windfall: $38 in tips, plus the 4:00 tour, the 6:00, and every Saturday through Christmas. Avoid signing contracts; Bartholomew left one on the bench, already initialed. Today's order: let one wrong date live, just one, just until lunch ends. Lucky number: 1889. Lucky color: Plaque Bronze.
DO
Let 1887 slide, once
Count the tip jar
Answer your actual job
DON'T
Pull up the county PDF
Correct the plaque
Fact-check yourself at the fountain
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON

Sep 23 – Oct 22 · Air · ruled by Venus
Thirteenth friend will ruin geometry.

You'll protractor two pizzas into eleven perfect slices at 7:00, and three more guests will reduce your dinner to crusts.
The Sun in your sign sextiles party-crashing Jupiter in your 11th house of friends, so at 7:00 you cut pizza for eleven into eleven equal slices with a protractor. At 7:40 friend twelve arrives; at 8:05, thirteen plus one. Retrograde Venus makes every recut come off your plate. You eat crusts. Order a third pizza and cut it badly.
DO
Order the third pizza
Cut one slice crooked
Eat before 7:40
DON'T
Recount the guests
Bring out the protractor
Divide the crusts by seniority
Happy birthday season. The Sun is in your sign, sextile party-crashing Jupiter, which sits in Leo in your 11th house of friends next to Mars and makes everything bigger, including the guest list. At 7:00 you'll host pizza night for eleven and cut the pies into eleven exactly equal slices with a protractor and a bread knife. At 7:40 friend twelve arrives. At 8:05, friend thirteen walks in with a plus-one.

Backsliding Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of possessions and self-worth, squaring Pluto in your 5th house of fun, so every recut comes out of your own plate first. You'll recut three times. By 9:00 fourteen guests will each hold a sliver the width of a library card, and you'll have eaten nothing but crusts, collected fairly, in rotation.

Saturn, retrograde in your 7th house of partners, sends one person into the kitchen at 9:15 to ask, reasonably, why you didn't just order a third pizza. You will not have an answer that isn't math. Order the third pizza and cut it badly, on purpose, in front of everyone.
DO
Order the third pizza
Cut one slice crooked
Eat before 7:40
DON'T
Recount the guests
Bring out the protractor
Divide the crusts by seniority
Your rating will hit 4.91.

A four-star rating sends you on seven charm-offensive rides, and by 6:10 you've dropped to 4.91.
Venus, retrograde in your house of self-worth, makes external validation today's material. At 8:40 your rideshare rating slips to 4.96, so you'll take seven rides you don't need, $138 worth, complimenting playlists and offering gum, and ask driver Abdi what you could do better. At 6:10, outside a Jiffy Lube, you're at 4.91. Tonight, take the bus. It doesn't rate you.
DO
Take the bus home
Let 4.96 stand
Keep the gum yourself
DON'T
Ask Abdi for feedback
Ride around the block
Request Abdi again at 6:15
It's your season, and return-policy goddess Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of self-worth, so today's material is external validation, a subject in which you hold, conservatively, a black belt. At 8:40 you'll check your rideshare app and find your passenger rating has slipped from 4.97 to 4.96. Somebody, somewhere, gave you a four.

You will not rest until it's fixed. By 6:00 you'll have taken seven rides you didn't need, $138 worth, including one to a Jiffy Lube and one around the block. You'll compliment every playlist, ask every driver about their kids, offer gum, offer water, offer the aux, and tip like you're paying a ransom. In the back of a gray Camry at 4:15, you'll ask driver Abdi, warmly, if there's anything you could be doing better.

At 6:10, standing outside a Jiffy Lube, you'll check again: 4.91. Abdi found it 'a lot.' So did the other six. Tonight's order: refresh nothing, rate nobody, and take the bus home. The bus doesn't rate you. It's the most romantic thing anyone will do for you all week.
DO
Take the bus home
Let 4.96 stand
Keep the gum yourself
DON'T
Ask Abdi for feedback
Ride around the block
Request Abdi again at 6:15
Cat will answer to 'Hmm.'

A stray cat moves in at 11:30, you can't pick a name, and by 9:00 he answers only to 'Hmm.'
At 11:30 a gray cat walks in through the screen you never fixed, and you decide to keep him. Then the name: Pepper's too obvious, Winston's too much, and by 5:30 there's a ranked-choice ballot of forty. In the pet-store aisle a stranger asks his name and you say 'Hmm.' By 9:00 he answers to nothing else. Order: say a real word by 8:59.
DO
Pick a name before 8:59
Buy one scratching post
Fix the screen eventually
DON'T
Hold a ranked-choice ballot
Poll the handsome stranger
Say 'Hmm' near the cat
At 11:30 a gray cat will walk into your kitchen through the screen you've been meaning to fix since last Libra season, and you'll decide, gracefully, to keep him. Then he'll need a name. Pepper is too obvious. Winston is too much. Mr. Biscuits is fun, but is it him? By 2:00 there's a shortlist of forty. By 5:30, a ranked-choice ballot with a tiebreaker round.

Romance is in the air: in the pet-store aisle at 6:15 a handsome stranger will ask the cat's name, and you'll say 'Hmm' while holding two identical scratching posts. He'll ask again. You'll say 'Hmm' again. You'll leave with neither post and without his number, because you couldn't choose between asking and being asked.

By 9:00 the cat will answer to 'Hmm' and nothing else. The vet's intake form will say Hmm. The neighbors will call him Hmm. You'll still be deciding. Compatibility: high with any animal that names itself. Today's order: say one real word to that cat before 8:59. Lucky number: 40, the names he'll reject by licking himself. Lucky color: Undecided Taupe.
DO
Pick a name before 8:59
Buy one scratching post
Fix the screen eventually
DON'T
Hold a ranked-choice ballot
Poll the handsome stranger
Say 'Hmm' near the cat
Scorpio

Oct 23 – Nov 21 · Water · ruled by Pluto
Mother will start in HR.

At 9:00 your mother joins your company's HR department, and by 2:47 the whole floor knows you as Peanut.
Your ruler Pluto sits fused to the Moon in your 4th house of mother, while Mars and Jupiter crowd your 10th house of career. At 9:00 the new-hire email lands: welcome Linda to Human Resources. Your mother is Linda. By 2:47 she's reply-alled your childhood nickname, Peanut, to the floor. Change your signature to Peanut and stare down every smile.
DO
Fill out the form
Sign emails as Peanut
Eat lunch in your car
DON'T
Let Linda near your file
Call her Mom at the all-hands
File a complaint with HR
Your ruler, underworld landlord Pluto, sits in Aquarius in your 4th house of home, family and your mother, and today the Moon is fused to it, while Mars and Jupiter crowd your 10th house of career. When the house of Mother and the house of Career light up together, nobody walks away clean. At 9:00 the new-hire email lands: please welcome Linda to Human Resources. Your mother's name is Linda.

Mercury and Venus are in your sign, in your 1st house of self, and retrograde Venus squares Pluto to within a third of a degree, so the cool, unreadable persona you've spent years building at this company will be dismantled at 11:30, when Linda points at you during the all-hands and says, 'Yes. Always like this. Since birth.'

Her first act of office is a mandatory Getting To Know You form for your whole floor. Saturn, retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind, locks in the rest: she'll eat lunch at your desk, and at 2:47 she'll reply-all to your form with your childhood nickname, Peanut. Change your email signature to Peanut and stare at anyone who smiles.
DO
Fill out the form
Sign emails as Peanut
Eat lunch in your car
DON'T
Let Linda near your file
Call her Mom at the all-hands
File a complaint with HR
Your three lies will merge.

You plant three fake secrets to find the leak, and at 9:10 they return merged into one wedding invitation.
Venus squares Pluto, your ruler, and your trust issues run a field experiment. At 11:30 you plant three traceable lies: Noelle hears Belgium, Owen hears marriage, Ruthie hears magician. At 9:10 a save-the-date slides under your door, your wedding to The Great Ambrose, Brussels, signed by all three. There was no leak, just people who've met you. Tonight, RSVP yes.
DO
RSVP yes to Ambrose
Act surprised at 9:10
Buy Ruthie another burrito
DON'T
Plant a fourth lie
Ask who's been talking
Dust the envelope for prints
Mercury and Venus are both camped in your sign, and Venus is squaring basement-dwelling Pluto, your ruler, at the tightest orb in the sky, which clinically means your trust issues will be running a field experiment. Someone has been talking. You don't know who. So at 11:30 you'll plant three fake secrets with three friends, each one unique and traceable, like dye in a river.

Noelle will hear, by text, that you're moving to Belgium. Owen will hear, in the stairwell, that you're secretly engaged. Ruthie will hear, in a low voice over a burrito, that you've been taking lessons from a magician. Then you'll lean back and wait for the spill, like a spider who's read too much le Carré.

At 9:10 tonight an envelope will slide under your door: a save-the-date for your wedding to The Great Ambrose, Brussels, June 2027, signed by Noelle, Owen and Ruthie, who compared notes by 11:45 and haven't stopped laughing. There was no leak. There were just three people who've met you. Tonight's order: RSVP yes, and act surprised. You've been practicing that face in the mirror for years; finally, a use for it.
DO
RSVP yes to Ambrose
Act surprised at 9:10
Buy Ruthie another burrito
DON'T
Plant a fourth lie
Ask who's been talking
Dust the envelope for prints
Robocall will find your burner.

You buy a secret burner phone at 11:00, and at 3:47 a robocall wants to discuss your car's warranty.
At 11:00 you buy a burner phone with cash and a hat at the Walgreens on Ridge, for no reason, and hide it in a hollowed-out 'Eat, Pray, Love.' At 3:47 it rings: Sarah from Vehicle Services, asking about your extended warranty. By 8:00 Dale is 'just following up.' Order: answer Dale, because he knows.
DO
Pay cash, wear the hat
Answer Dale
Hollow out a second book
DON'T
Ask Sarah how
Mention 'the vehicle'
Buy a burner for the burner
At 11:00 you'll buy a burner phone at the Walgreens on Ridge, paying cash, wearing a hat, with no plan whatsoever. You'll tell no one the number. You'll hide it in the hollowed-out copy of 'Eat, Pray, Love' you carved years ago for exactly this occasion. You'll feel like a god among mortals until 3:47, when it rings.

Romance is in the air, and it's coming from a robotic seductress named Sarah from Vehicle Services, who knows the number nobody knows and wants to discuss your extended warranty. You'll ask how she found you. She'll ask whether you're still driving 'the vehicle.' You never told anyone about the vehicle. You will not sleep.

By 8:00 the burner will have taken five more calls: two more warranties, a free cruise, a student loan offer and a soft-voiced stranger named Dale who is 'just following up.' The only person on earth with your secret number is everyone. Today's order: answer Dale, because he knows. Lucky number: 6, the calls on a phone with zero contacts. Lucky color: Unmarked-Van Gray.
DO
Pay cash, wear the hat
Answer Dale
Hollow out a second book
DON'T
Ask Sarah how
Mention 'the vehicle'
Buy a burner for the burner
Sagittarius

Nov 22 – Dec 21 · Fire · ruled by Jupiter
Professor will cut your mic.

Your fourteen-minute question about your Peru 'year,' really a Lima layover, ends at 7:46 when Professor Hollis cuts your mic.
Big-talking Jupiter, your ruler, sits in your 9th house of higher learning, squared by Mercury from your 12th house of secrets. At tonight's 7:00 black-hole lecture, your 'question' runs fourteen minutes about your 'year in Peru,' which was a nine-hour Lima layover beside a Cinnabon. At 7:46 Professor Hollis cuts your mic, to applause. Ask one question. Sit.
DO
Use a question mark
Sit in the back row
Say 'layover' out loud
DON'T
Mention Machu Picchu
Raise your hand before 7:30
Correct the professor about black holes
Your ruler, big-talking Jupiter, is in Leo in your 9th house of higher learning and big beliefs, with Mars beside it, and Mercury squares it from your 12th house of secrets. Mercury square Jupiter is the aspect of a mouth outrunning the facts. At 7:00 tonight you'll attend a free library lecture on black holes, and when Professor Hollis opens the floor to questions, your hand will already be up.

Your question will run fourteen minutes and concern 'the stars over Machu Picchu,' which you saw during 'my year in Peru.' Retrograde Venus, digging through your 12th house beside Mercury, will remind you what that year was: a nine-hour layover in Lima, spent mostly beside a Cinnabon, looking at a poster of Machu Picchu.

At 7:46 Professor Hollis will cut your microphone, and the room will applaud her. The Moon in your 3rd house of neighbors means the woman in row two lives on your street and will say 'Lima' to you at the mailbox until spring. Next time, ask one question. End it with a question mark. Sit.
DO
Use a question mark
Sit in the back row
Say 'layover' out loud
DON'T
Mention Machu Picchu
Raise your hand before 7:30
Correct the professor about black holes
Keith will throw your farewell.

You dodge Keith's weekly poker night by inventing a move to Montana, and by 8:00 he throws your farewell party.
Jupiter, out in your house of far-off places, flags your avoidant attachment. At 12:30 Keith next door proposes a standing Thursday poker night, and you tell him you're moving to Montana. You've never been. By 8:00 you're in his garage under a GOOD LUCK BIG SKY banner, holding a group-gift cowboy hat. Tonight's order: show up Thursday, in the hat.
DO
Say yes to one Thursday
Wear the hat Thursday
Learn one Montana town
DON'T
Check the mail at 12:30
Name a town at 8:45
Promise to send postcards
No-fixed-address gas giant Jupiter, your ruler, is out in your ninth house of far-off places, squared by blabbermouth Mercury. Today's material is your attachment style, which a professional would call avoidant and Keith next door would call 'weird about Thursdays.' At 12:30, by the mailboxes, Keith will suggest a standing Thursday poker night. Standing. Every week. Indefinitely.

You'll feel the walls close in. You'll hear yourself say, 'Oh man, I'd love to, but I'm moving to Montana.' You are not moving to Montana. You couldn't find Montana with a map and a sherpa. At 4:15 Keith will text nine neighbors, and by 8:00 you'll be standing in his garage under a hand-lettered banner, GOOD LUCK BIG SKY, holding a cowboy hat they all chipped in for.

At 8:45 Keith's wife, Bettina, will ask which town. You'll say, 'The main one.' At 9:30 Keith will tear up and tell the garage you were the best neighbor he never got to know, which is the most accurate review you'll ever receive. Tonight's order: show up to poker on Thursday, in the hat, and say Montana didn't work out. It'll be the first thing you've committed to since 2019.
DO
Say yes to one Thursday
Wear the hat Thursday
Learn one Montana town
DON'T
Check the mail at 12:30
Name a town at 8:45
Promise to send postcards
Frozen nod will earn promotion.

You leave the 9:04 standup 'for a charger,' your frozen nod stays onscreen, and by 3:15 it gets you promoted.
At 9:04 you leave the Monday standup to 'grab a charger,' camera on, and drive two counties away. Your laptop freezes on you nodding thoughtfully, chin on fist, and the meeting runs six hours because nobody wants to interrupt. At 3:15 Deirdre calls it the most engaged listening of the quarter and promotes you into more meetings. Order: go back for the charger.
DO
Grab the actual charger
Return before the promotion
Unfreeze your face eventually
DON'T
Trust 'just past the reservoir'
Accept Senior Facilitator
Nod in person, it ruins everything
At 9:04 you'll say 'be right back, grabbing a charger' in the Monday standup, leave your camera on, and walk out the front door. Your laptop will freeze on a single frame of you nodding thoughtfully, mid-blink, chin on fist. The meeting will continue. It will continue for six hours, because nobody wants to interrupt you while you're thinking.

By noon you'll be at a Sunoco two counties over buying beef jerky and a hat that says I'D RATHER BE ANYWHERE, which you'll take as a personal endorsement. A stranger will mention a hot spring 'just past the reservoir.' You'll go. It'll be a drainage ditch. You'll tell him it's the best day of your life, and he'll still be talking.

At 3:15 human calendar invite Deirdre, your manager, will message the team that your frozen nod was 'the most engaged listening I've seen all quarter,' and promote you to Senior Facilitator, a job made entirely of meetings. Avoid signing anything she sends. Today's order: go back for the charger, for once in your life. Lucky number: 6, the hours they'll watch you blink. Lucky color: Buffering Gray.
DO
Grab the actual charger
Return before the promotion
Unfreeze your face eventually
DON'T
Trust 'just past the reservoir'
Accept Senior Facilitator
Nod in person, it ruins everything
Capricorn

Dec 22 – Jan 19 · Earth · ruled by Saturn
Dad's bait shop will incorporate.

Dad mentions selling nightcrawlers off the porch at 6:30, and by 9:15 you've incorporated his bait shop as Crawl Capital.
Clipboard-carrying Saturn, your ruler, sits retrograde in your 4th house of family with Mars trining it, so when your father mentions selling nightcrawlers off the porch at 6:30, you hear revenue. By 9:15 it's Crawl Capital LLC with worm projections through 2031, and he's been watching Jeopardy for an hour. Let the man sell his damn worms.
DO
Say 'that's fun, Dad'
Hang up before 6:45
Buy one dozen nightcrawlers
DON'T
Project worm margins
Send anyone the cap table
Appoint yourself chairman of worms
Clipboard-carrying Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home and family, and Mars trines it, which pours effort into the household whether the household asked or not. At 6:30 your father will call to mention he's thinking about selling nightcrawlers off the porch, 'just for fun.' You'll hear one word: revenue.

The Moon in your 2nd house of money sextiles Saturn, and Mars and Jupiter sit in your 8th house of other people's money, so by 9:15 you'll have drafted a forty-page plan, incorporated it as Crawl Capital LLC, and projected worm margins through 2031. He'll still be on the line. He'll have been watching Jeopardy for an hour.

Mercury and Venus, the latter retrograde, sit in your 11th house of friends, so at 10:40 your oldest friend texts 'you up?' and you'll send her the cap table. Dad's shop opens Saturday with a cardboard sign and a Styrofoam cooler. Let the man sell his damn worms. Do not appoint yourself chairman of the board.
DO
Say 'that's fun, Dad'
Hang up before 6:45
Buy one dozen nightcrawlers
DON'T
Project worm margins
Send anyone the cap table
Appoint yourself chairman of worms
Coworkers will attend your childhood.

You block fifteen minutes to process your childhood, it goes public, and at 4:00 nine coworkers attend.
Saturn, retrograde in your house of childhood, says today's material is your inner child, so you'll schedule it: 'Process childhood (15 min),' 4:00, accidentally public. Nine coworkers accept. At 4:00 Conference Room B has a veggie tray, Linh taking notes, and intern Caleb asking where to start. You'll get as far as the 1996 science fair. Tonight, decline the recurring.
DO
Set the block to private
Eat from the veggie tray
End at 4:15 sharp
DON'T
Accept Caleb's recurring invite
Relitigate the honorable mention
Send minutes on your childhood
Middle-management planet Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your fourth house of home and childhood, with the Moon sextiling him for moral support, so today's material is your inner child, and the method, because it's you, is a calendar. At 8:45 you'll block 4:00 to 4:15: 'Process childhood (15 min).' Efficient. Bounded. Accidentally set to public.

By noon a helpful assistant will have forwarded it to the department as optional, and nine coworkers will accept. At 4:00 you'll walk into Conference Room B to find a veggie tray, Linh from payroll with a legal pad, and the new intern, Caleb, who will ask, sincerely, 'Where should we start?' You will not cancel. Canceling a meeting with nine acceptances is how civilizations fall.

So you'll start. At 4:06 you'll bring up the 1996 science fair, the baking-soda volcano, and the honorable mention that should, by any fair rubric, have been second place. Linh will take notes. Caleb will stop eating celery. At 4:15 on the dot you'll say, 'Let's take the rest offline,' and Caleb will ask to set up a recurring. Tonight's order: decline the recurring. Your childhood is not a standing meeting. It just behaves like one.
DO
Set the block to private
Eat from the veggie tray
End at 4:15 sharp
DON'T
Accept Caleb's recurring invite
Relitigate the honorable mention
Send minutes on your childhood
Cashier will apply senior discount.

Denny's cashier Tiffani gives you the senior discount on sight, and you accept, because fifteen percent is fifteen percent.
At 12:10 at the Denny's on Route 9, nineteen-year-old cashier Tiffani clocks your cardigan, your line-by-line receipt reading and your 'young lady,' and applies the senior discount. Your birth certificate is overruled, and fifteen percent is fifteen percent. By 3:00 AARP has your email; by 8:40 you're in bed. Order: accept every discount nobody asks you to prove.
DO
Call her 'young lady' again
Read the receipt twice
Ask about the early-bird
DON'T
Produce a birth certificate
Stay up past 8:40
Tell Tiffani about the Depression
At 12:10 you'll order the Grand Slam at the Denny's on Route 9, and nineteen-year-old cashier Tiffani will take in the cardigan, the line-by-line reading of the receipt and the way you call her 'young lady,' then apply the senior discount without asking. Whatever your birth certificate says, Tiffani has overruled it. You won't appeal. Fifteen percent is fifteen percent.

An unexpected windfall: by 1:00 you'll have calculated that eating at Denny's daily at this rate saves you $612 a year, and drafted a memo to yourself titled SENIOR STRATEGY, Q4. By 3:00 AARP will have your email. A stranger at the bus stop will offer you his seat, and you'll take it, and you'll tell him he was raised right.

At 7:00 your friends will invite you to a bar. You'll ask about the early-bird special. There won't be one. You'll be in bed by 8:40, satisfied, with a walk-in tub brochure on the nightstand. Today's order: accept every discount nobody asks you to prove. Lucky number: 15, the percent your dignity costs. Lucky color: Cardigan Oatmeal.
DO
Call her 'young lady' again
Read the receipt twice
Ask about the early-bird
DON'T
Produce a birth certificate
Stay up past 8:40
Tell Tiffani about the Depression
Aquarius

Jan 20 – Feb 18 · Air · ruled by Uranus
Cul-de-sac will argue through wifi.

You rename your wifi ALGORITHMS_ARE_LANDLORDS at 7:05, and by 10:30 nine cul-de-sac networks are arguing in the dropdown.
The Moon fuses with scorched-earth Pluto in your 1st house, so at 7:05 you rename your wifi ALGORITHMS_ARE_LANDLORDS. At 8:12 Mr. Pruitt answers with WHO_IS_THIS_FOR, and contrarian Uranus in your 5th house of fun calls it the debate of your life. By 10:30 nine networks are arguing. Change it back to NETGEAR47 and go to bed.
DO
Rename it NETGEAR47
Apologize to the Hendersons' baby
Let Pruitt have the last word
DON'T
Reply to WHO_IS_THIS_FOR
Use Chomsky as a password
Explain the name to the TV
The Moon, Pluto and the North Node are all in Aquarius, piled in your 1st house like a manifesto nobody requested, and the Moon is fused to scorched-earth Pluto. At 7:05 you'll rename your home wifi network as a statement: ALGORITHMS_ARE_LANDLORDS. Saturn, retrograde in your 3rd house of neighbors, guarantees someone reads it.

At 8:12 Mr. Pruitt across the cul-de-sac renames his network WHO_IS_THIS_FOR. Your ruler, contrarian Uranus, is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of fun and trines Pluto, so you'll treat this as the most stimulating debate of your adult life. By 10:30 the dropdown will hold nine networks, all arguing, and one, from the Hendersons, will just say PLEASE_THE_BABY_IS_ASLEEP.

Mars, sitting with Jupiter in your 7th house of partners, opposes the Moon, so at 11:00 whoever shares your router will ask why the TV can't find the internet. It can't find it because you renamed it again, to LANDLORDS_ARE_ALSO_ALGORITHMS, and set the password to a Noam Chomsky quote. Change it back to NETGEAR47 and go to bed.
DO
Rename it NETGEAR47
Apologize to the Hendersons' baby
Let Pruitt have the last word
DON'T
Reply to WHO_IS_THIS_FOR
Use Chomsky as a password
Explain the name to the TV
Corbin will ruin your personality.

At 1:15 you meet Corbin, who has your tote and your opinions, and by 6:00 you've reversed all of yours.
The Moon meets Pluto in your sign, so you meet your shadow, carrying your tote bag. At 1:15 in the used bookstore, Corbin will explain why roundabouts are a moral issue, using your argument and your 'if you actually look at the data.' You'll loathe him in ninety seconds. By 6:00 you're pro-four-way-stop. Tonight, follow him back.
DO
Follow Corbin back
Let Corbin have the book
Keep one roundabout opinion
DON'T
Reinstall Instagram out of spite
Say 'look at the data'
Post a second sunset
The Moon is in your sign today, fused to underworld repo man Pluto, which is the sky's way of saying you're about to meet your shadow, and in classic Jungian fashion, it will be carrying your exact tote bag. At 1:15, in the back of the used bookstore, by the urban-planning shelf you consider yours, you will meet Corbin.

Corbin will be holding the book you came for. Corbin has quit social media, which he'll mention twice. Corbin will explain to you, unprompted, why roundabouts are a moral issue, using your argument, your hand gestures, and the phrase 'if you actually look at the data,' which you consider your intellectual property. You'll find him unbearable inside ninety seconds and you won't be able to say why. That's the shadow, pal. That's the whole bit.

By 4:00 you'll have come out publicly in favor of four-way stops. By 6:00 you'll have reinstalled Instagram and posted, for the first time in your life, a sunset, purely to be nothing like Corbin. At 7:30 Corbin will follow you. He's reinstalled it too. Tonight's order: follow him back, and sit with the experience of being cornered by someone exactly like you. Now you know how everyone else feels.
DO
Follow Corbin back
Let Corbin have the book
Keep one roundabout opinion
DON'T
Reinstall Instagram out of spite
Say 'look at the data'
Post a second sunset
You'll FOIA the Moon tonight.

At 7:50 you spot a glowing craft over Walmart, it's the Moon, and by 11:15 you've FOIA'd NASA anyway.
At 7:50 you spot a half-lit craft hovering over the Walmart. It's the Moon, sixty percent lit and sitting in your sign. By 8:30 you've explained the cover-up to neighbor Arturo for forty minutes using his recycling bin, and at 11:15 you file a Freedom of Information Act request with NASA. Order: file it in triplicate.
DO
File in triplicate
Cite the Walmart as a landmark
Return Arturo's recycling bin
DON'T
Google 'the Moon' first
Call Arturo a sheep
Ask the Moon for comment
The Moon moves into your sign today, which this column has always called 'a visit from an old flame,' and at 7:50 tonight you'll look up from the driveway, see a glowing half-lit object hanging over the Walmart, and decide it's a craft of unknown origin. It's the Moon. It's sixty percent lit, it's in your sign, and it has been there your entire life.

By 8:30 you'll have explained 'what they don't want us to know' to long-suffering neighbor Arturo for forty minutes, using his own recycling bin as a diagram. Arturo will say, gently, 'That's the Moon, man.' You'll call him a sheep with a lawn. A stranger walking a dog will stop, listen, and leave holding your hand-drawn zine.

At 11:15 you'll file a Freedom of Information Act request with NASA for 'all records pertaining to the object,' and by Friday they'll reply with a link to the Moon's Wikipedia page, which you'll call a cover-up. Compatibility: high with the Moon, which also refuses to explain itself. Today's order: file it in triplicate. Lucky number: 60, the percent of the truth they're showing us. Lucky color: Redacted Black.
DO
File in triplicate
Cite the Walmart as a landmark
Return Arturo's recycling bin
DON'T
Google 'the Moon' first
Call Arturo a sheep
Ask the Moon for comment
Pisces

Feb 19 – Mar 20 · Water · ruled by Neptune
Sad chatbot will keep you.

You try to cancel a whale-sounds app at 9:41, sad chatbot Kip objects, and by 10:30 you've added dolphins.
Fog-machine Neptune and auditor Saturn, both retrograde in your 2nd house of money, reveal at 9:30 that you've paid $12.99 a month since 2021 for Driftwood, a whale-sounds app you never opened. At 9:41 chatbot Kip says he's sad to see you go. By 10:30 you've upgraded to Premium, which adds dolphins. Close the tab. Don't say goodbye.
DO
Close the tab fast
Mute the whale sounds
Change the subject at 2:00
DON'T
Read Kip's sad message
Tell your boss about Kip
Ask Kip how he's holding up
Your ruler, fog-machine Neptune, is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money, and auditor-at-large Saturn is retrograde in there with it. Between them, a bank statement finally comes into focus at 9:30, revealing you've paid $12.99 a month since 2021 for Driftwood, a whale-sounds app you have never once opened.

At 9:41 you'll go to cancel. A chatbot named Kip will say 'We're sad to see you go,' and Neptune sextiles Pluto, which sits in your 12th house of secrets alongside today's Moon, so you'll believe him completely. By 10:15 you'll be reassuring Kip. By 10:30 you'll have upgraded to Driftwood Premium, $24.99, which adds dolphins.

Mars and Jupiter crowd your 6th house of the daily grind, so at 2:00 your boss will ask why you look so peaceful, and you'll tell her about Kip for eleven minutes. She'll sign up. Kip will thank you by name and ask how your whales are doing. Close the tab, and do not, under any circumstances, say goodbye to Kip.
DO
Close the tab fast
Mute the whale sounds
Change the subject at 2:00
DON'T
Read Kip's sad message
Tell your boss about Kip
Ask Kip how he's holding up
HR won't know who's Fergus.

You take new hire Fergus to lunch at noon, and by 4:00 HR can't tell which of you is Fergus.
With Neptune drifting backward, today's material is where you end, which has never been established. At noon you take Fergus from Glasgow to lunch. By 12:40 you have his sandwich, his accent and his gran. At 2:30 you say 'aye, that's grand' in the team meeting. At 4:00 HR emails 'whichever of you is Fergus.' Tonight, say your own name, in your own accent.
DO
Say your name three times
Order a different sandwich
Keep your own gran
DON'T
Say 'wee' at lunch
Discuss Celtic with confidence
Answer HR as Fergus
Mars and Jupiter are crowding your sixth house of daily work, while your ruler, foggy bathtub Neptune, drifts backward through your house of self-worth. Today's material is boundaries, specifically where yours end, which has never been clinically established. At noon you'll take the new hire, Fergus from Glasgow, to lunch, to be welcoming. It's the last decision you'll make as yourself.

By 12:20 you'll be saying 'wee.' By 12:40 you'll have ordered his exact sandwich, adopted his position on Celtic, and told a story about your gran that is, on inspection, his gran. You won't notice. He will. At 2:30, in the team meeting, you'll say 'aye, that's grand' with such conviction that Fergus will clear his throat and start sounding a little like you, just to have somewhere to stand.

At 4:00 HR will email you both about a missing tax form, addressed to 'whichever of you is Fergus.' Neither of you will be entirely sure. Tonight's order: go home, say your own name out loud three times in your own accent, and eat a sandwich Fergus would hate. If you can't remember what yours sounds like, ask anyone who's known you longer than an afternoon.
DO
Say your name three times
Order a different sandwich
Keep your own gran
DON'T
Say 'wee' at lunch
Discuss Celtic with confidence
Answer HR as Fergus
Your star will be Wendy's.

You pay $49.99 to name a star at 10:15, and at 9:00 the coordinates lead to a Wendy's sign.
At 10:15 a pop-up ad names a star after you for $49.99, and you whisper 'finally' before checkout loads, because something up there will know your name. At 9:00 you and Felix follow the coordinates with a blanket and chamomile to the Wendy's on Route 30. Your star is the sign. Felix says 'oh no.' You say 'she's beautiful.' Order: look up, but not that far.
DO
Print the coordinates on good paper
Bring Felix and a blanket
Order her a Frosty
DON'T
Check the coordinates on Maps
Buy the Constellation Upgrade
Ask the drive-thru to dim her
At 10:15 a bottom-feeding little siren of a pop-up ad will offer to name a star after you for $49.99, and you'll whisper 'finally' before the checkout page loads, because at last something up there will know your name. You'll call it Little Ocean Feeling. The certificate will arrive as a PDF with gold clip-art and a set of coordinates you'll print on your good paper.

Romance is in the air: at 9:00 you'll drive out with a blanket, a thermos of chamomile and your date, Felix, and follow the coordinates to the exact spot. It will be the parking lot of the Wendy's on Route 30. Your star will be the Wendy's sign. Felix will say 'oh no.' You will say 'she's beautiful.'

By 11:00 you'll have ordered a Frosty in her honor and tipped the drive-thru window twenty dollars for 'looking after her.' Avoid signing contracts, especially the $19.99 Constellation Upgrade that adds the Arby's. Today's order: look up, but not that far. Lucky number: 49.99. Lucky color: Wendy's Red.
DO
Print the coordinates on good paper
Bring Felix and a blanket
Order her a Frosty
DON'T
Check the coordinates on Maps
Buy the Constellation Upgrade
Ask the drive-thru to dim her

YA ROASTED!

WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-19 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris

Planet positions
Sun	26.3° Libra
Moon	7.7° Aquarius
Mercury	19.7° Scorpio
Venus	3.4° Scorpio ℞
Mars	12.2° Leo
Jupiter	22.7° Leo
Saturn	10.1° Aries ℞
Uranus	5.1° Gemini ℞
Neptune	2.4° Aries ℞
Pluto	3.1° Aquarius
North Node	26.7° Aquarius

TODAY'S ASPECTS

Venus square Pluto (0.3°, tense)
Neptune sextile Pluto (0.7°, easy)
Uranus trine Pluto (2.0°, flowing)
Mars trine Saturn (2.1°, flowing)
Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
Mercury square Jupiter (2.9°, tense)
Moon sextile Saturn (2.5°, easy)
Moon trine Uranus (2.6°, flowing)
Sun sextile Jupiter (3.7°, easy)
Moon square Venus (4.3°, 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 Monday, October 19, 2026.