ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Libra season
- Waxing Gibbous in Aquarius
- 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.
-
Aries
Progress bar will outlast you.
Saturn retrograde stalls your laptop update at 99 percent, and one stab at the power button means 1 percent.
With Saturn retrograde in your 1st house, the planet of delay is sitting on your gas pedal while Mars, your ruler, is off in Leo flirting. Expect a laptop update to freeze at 99 percent sometime at work while the spinning wheel runs your life. Resist the power button; Saturn rewards it by starting over at 1. Sit there, hands off, and let the machine finish.
DO
- Watch the bar like television
- Let the date text first
- Read a paper magazine
DON'T
- Hold the power button
- Text 'hello??' twice
- Threaten a laptop out loud
With slow-motion, clipboard-carrying Saturn retrograde in Aries and parked in your 1st house, the planet of delay is sitting directly on your gas pedal. Expect everything you touch today to load. A laptop update will reach 99 percent and stay there, and the little spinning wheel becomes the most powerful force in your life. Resist the urge to hold the power button. Saturn retrograde rewards that move by starting over at 1.
Mars, your ruler, is in Leo in your 5th house beside Jupiter, which inflates romance and fun into a full-contact sport. A date or a crush may notice you texting 'hello??' four minutes after 'hello.' Neptune, also retrograde in your 1st, fogs the mirror, so you will read this as decisive. Everyone else will read it as a leaf blower with a phone plan.
Mars trine Saturn is the rare aspect that asks fire to sit still, and for you it lasts about as long as a crosswalk signal. Be wary of anything at work with a loading screen, a hold queue or a 'please wait.' This is not the day to win. It is the day to watch the bar. Sit there, hands off the keyboard, and let the damn machine finish.
DO
- Watch the bar like television
- Let the date text first
- Read a paper magazine
DON'T
- Hold the power button
- Text 'hello??' twice
- Threaten a laptop out loud
You'll speedrun the calming meditation.
A friend calls you intense, so you finish a ten-minute meditation in four and look for the leaderboard.
Saturn is retrograde on top of you, so the material is slowing down. At lunch a friend says you seem a little intense, and you'll deny it loudly enough to rattle the salt shaker. Back at your desk you'll drag the slider through a ten-minute meditation in four, then hunt for a leaderboard. Homework: inhale for four when it says four.
DO
- Inhale for the full four
- Let the session run
- Accept “a little intense”
DON'T
- Deny it near a salt shaker
- Drag the meditation slider
- Screenshot your mindful minutes
Hall-monitor Saturn is retrograde in your first house today, sitting directly on top of you, so the material we're working with is slowing down, which you've always treated as a rumor. At lunch a friend says, gently, that you seem “a little intense today.” Notice what happens in your body. It's not reflection. It's a starting gun. You'll say “I'm not intense” at a volume that rattles the salt shaker, and that's the moment the day becomes a project.
Back at your desk you'll open a meditation app to prove a point. The session is ten minutes of guided breathing. You'll finish it in four by dragging the slider, then do three more back to back, then check whether the app has a leaderboard. It doesn't. You'll take this personally. By afternoon you'll be the calmest person in the building, the way a drag racer is calm at a red light.
Tonight you'll text the friend a screenshot of your mindful minutes, unprompted, which is not the gesture of a person who isn't intense. Homework: tomorrow, do one breathing exercise at the speed it asks for. If it says inhale for four, it means four. Do not inhale for two and call it efficiency.
DO
- Inhale for the full four
- Let the session run
- Accept “a little intense”
DON'T
- Deny it near a salt shaker
- Drag the meditation slider
- Screenshot your mindful minutes
You'll lose a silence bet.
You accept a coworker's bet before hearing it's 'stay quiet all meeting,' and lose twenty dollars at 'good morning.'
A coworker will say 'bet you can't' and you'll say 'watch me' before hearing the rest, which is 'stay quiet for the whole meeting.' You will make it to 'good morning.' The receptionist hears you lose from two floors down. Money matters come to a head by afternoon: you owe twenty dollars. Pay it and say nothing, which you can't.
DO
- Let the sentence finish
- Pay the twenty in cash
- Mouth 'good morning' silently
DON'T
- Say 'watch me' first
- Take 'nice form' literally
- Narrate your own silence
Big doings at work today. A coworker will say 'bet you can't' and you will say 'watch me' before the sentence is over. The sentence, once it's over, is 'stay quiet for the whole meeting.' Stakes: twenty dollars. You will make it to 'good morning.' The receptionist will hear you lose from two floors down.
Love is on the move, and you will tackle it. A cute stranger at the gym will say 'nice form,' and by the next set you'll have asked them to dinner, picked the restaurant and ordered for both of you. They were being sarcastic. A Libra figures prominently, mostly by rolling its eyes. Compatibility: high with anyone wearing earplugs.
Money troubles peak by afternoon, and the trouble is twenty dollars. Avoid signing contracts. Avoid any sentence that starts with 'bet.' The coworker will want cash. Pay the twenty in cash and say nothing, which you can't. Lucky number: 2, the words you got through. Lucky color: forfeit red.
DO
- Let the sentence finish
- Pay the twenty in cash
- Mouth 'good morning' silently
DON'T
- Say 'watch me' first
- Take 'nice form' literally
- Narrate your own silence
-
Taurus
You'll wear your coat indoors.
Somebody at home turns down the thermostat, and rather than touch the dial you wear your winter coat until victory.
With Venus, your ruler, retrograde in your 7th and squaring Pluto, a power struggle at home is coming, and it will be fought over the thermostat. Mars and Jupiter in your 4th make it bigger than the furniture. Do not touch the dial; touching it is surrender. Expect a sweater, a second sweater, then last November's winter coat on the couch. Zip it to the chin and win.
DO
- Layer like a Duluth bus stop
- Keep the dial in sight
- Wear mittens to dinner
DON'T
- Touch the dial
- Take a video call
- Admit you can't feel your toes
With backpedaling, grudge-holding Venus, your ruler, retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house and squaring Pluto to the degree, a power struggle with a partner or housemate is all but guaranteed, and it will be fought over the thermostat. Expect the dial to be turned down while you're in the other room. Expect to notice within ninety seconds. Taurus does not adjust things. Taurus waits for the universe to apologize.
Mars and Jupiter are both in Leo in your 4th house of home, which turns the living room into a war room and makes every grievance bigger than the furniture. Do not touch the dial. Touching it is surrender. Instead, expect a sweater, then a second sweater, then the winter coat with last November's receipt still in the pocket, and expect to sit on the couch like a man waiting for a bus in Duluth.
Sun conjunct Venus puts your pride in the full glare of the day, and the Moon in your 10th means somebody from work calls while you're dressed for a blizzard indoors. Be wary of video. Saturn in your 12th keeps the secret: you are freezing, and you would rather become a fossil on that couch than admit it. Zip the coat to the chin and win.
DO
- Layer like a Duluth bus stop
- Keep the dial in sight
- Wear mittens to dinner
DON'T
- Touch the dial
- Take a video call
- Admit you can't feel your toes
Somebody will request one fry.
Someone at dinner asks for one fry, so you order a second basket to protect the first, then eat both.
Venus is retrograde in your partnership house, so the material is people wanting what's yours. Tonight at dinner, someone reaches toward your plate and asks for one fry. You'll say “of course” in your bank-call voice, then order a second basket “for the table,” sliding it over like ransom so the first stays under your forearm. You'll eat both. Homework: offer the smallest fry, unprompted, without narrating the sacrifice.
DO
- Surrender one small fry
- Eat lunch at lunchtime
- Share without narrating
DON'T
- Answer “what's that?” by eating
- Order fries “for the table”
- Defend the basket with your forearm
Your sulking ruler Venus is retrograde in your partnership house today, so the material we're working with is other people wanting what's yours. It starts early, at work, when somebody walks past the microwave and says, “Ooh, what is that?” about your lunch. Notice your shoulders. That's guarding. You'll eat the entire thing before the morning is over, standing up, so the question can never be asked again.
Tonight, at dinner, the person across from you reaches toward your plate and asks, very lightly, for one fry. One. You'll hear yourself say “of course” in the voice people use when the bank calls, and then flag down the server for a second basket “for the table,” which you'll slide toward them like a ransom so the first basket can stay where it belongs: under your forearm.
By dessert you'll have eaten most of both, because the second basket also drifted toward you, which is what things do around you. This isn't about fries. It's about the fear that if you give one away, more will be asked for, forever. Homework: tomorrow, offer someone the smallest fry on your plate, unprompted. Do not narrate the sacrifice.
DO
- Surrender one small fry
- Eat lunch at lunchtime
- Share without narrating
DON'T
- Answer “what's that?” by eating
- Order fries “for the table”
- Defend the basket with your forearm
You'll wait out the escalator.
The mall escalator stops with you on it, and you wait for a teenager at lunch rather than climb.
The mall escalator stops this afternoon, and you are on it. Strangers walk past you up the dead steps, because they are stairs, but you will not become a person who climbs. You wait for maintenance, a teenager who is at lunch. Windfall: a free pretzel sample, held up from the food court on a stick. Do not climb. Wait it out.
DO
- Hold the handrail with conviction
- Accept the pretzel sample
- Let strangers climb past
DON'T
- Move for the stroller
- Rush the teenager's lunch
- Admit they were stairs
Big news at the mall this afternoon: the escalator stops, and you are on it. Strangers will walk past you up the dead steps as if they are stairs, because they are stairs. You will not become a person who climbs. You will wait for maintenance. Maintenance is a teenager, and he is at lunch.
An unexpected windfall arrives on a stick: a free pretzel sample, held up from the food court by an Auntie Anne's employee who has clearly seen this before. Money matters improve by exactly one pretzel. A woman with a stroller will need to get by. She will find another way. They always do.
Romance: somebody on the step below asks if you're okay, and you say 'I'm good here,' and mean it with your whole spine. Compatibility: high with the escalator. Low with the teenager. Tonight, the couch will be exactly where you left it, as it should be. Do not climb. Wait it out. Lucky number: 31, the steps you refused. Lucky color: handrail black.
DO
- Hold the handrail with conviction
- Accept the pretzel sample
- Let strangers climb past
DON'T
- Move for the stroller
- Rush the teenager's lunch
- Admit they were stairs
-
Gemini
Screenshot will reach its subject.
Mercury squares Jupiter, and a screenshot of what you texted about somebody lands on that somebody's phone by afternoon.
With Mercury, your ruler, squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of texting, every message travels farther than intended. Expect a screenshot of what you said about a sibling or the group chat's quiet one to land on that exact person's phone. Uranus retrograde in your 1st will have you agreeing with both sides. Skip the clarifying voice memo. Put the phone face-down until Thursday.
DO
- Assume everything is screenshotted
- Agree with nobody in writing
- Hide the phone in a drawer
DON'T
- Text 'that's not what I meant'
- Narrate spreadsheets aloud
- Screenshot the screenshot
With your blabbermouth ruler Mercury in Scorpio and squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of siblings, neighbors and texting, every message you send today travels farther and lands bigger than intended. Expect a screenshot of something you said about a sibling, a neighbor, or the group chat's quiet one to find its way back to the very person you said it about. Jupiter does not leak. Jupiter broadcasts.
Mercury and Venus both sit in your 6th house of work routine, which means the grind gets talked about instead of done. Be wary of narrating a spreadsheet to someone from work for twenty minutes and calling it a meeting. The Moon in Aquarius squares Mercury this afternoon, so whatever you swore this morning, you'll swear the opposite after lunch, with equal conviction and better hand gestures.
Uranus, retrograde in Gemini in your 1st house, scrambles your personality mid-sentence, so when the screenshot surfaces you may find yourself agreeing with both the person who sent it and the person it insults. This is not the day for a follow-up text, a clarifying voice memo or the phrase 'that's not what I meant.' Put the phone face-down and leave it there until Thursday.
DO
- Assume everything is screenshotted
- Agree with nobody in writing
- Hide the phone in a drawer
DON'T
- Text 'that's not what I meant'
- Narrate spreadsheets aloud
- Screenshot the screenshot
You'll volunteer during your daydream.
Half of you leaves a long meeting to plan a food truck, and the other half volunteers for whatever “this” is.
Mercury is in your routine house, so the material is the grind. This morning a meeting runs long; one of you stays nodding, the other leaves to plan a Korean breakfast taco truck. Right as it gets a name, you'll say “yeah, totally” to taking point on something. You won't ask what. Homework: write down one thing somebody else said in that meeting.
DO
- Ask what “this” is
- Name the truck later
- Stay in one room
DON'T
- Say “yeah, totally” blind
- Reverse-engineer a calendar invite
- Pitch the neighbor a fake truck
Your twitchy little ruler Mercury is in your sixth house today, the house of routine, so the material we're working with is the daily grind, which you experience as a hostage situation with snacks. Sometime this morning a meeting runs long. One of you stays in the room, nodding. The other one leaves through the window and starts planning a food truck. Tacos, but Korean, but breakfast.
Right as the truck gets a name, somebody asks who can take point on this, and you'll hear your own voice say “yeah, totally.” You don't know what “this” is. Notice that you won't ask, because asking means admitting only half of you attended. Instead you'll spend the afternoon reverse-engineering the assignment from a calendar invite that now has your name on it and the word “quarterly.”
After work you'll run into the neighbor and describe the food truck as if it exists and the assignment as if you chose it, both with total confidence. Homework: tonight, write down one thing somebody else said in that meeting. One. Then sit with the fact that the only line you remember is “yeah, totally,” and you said it.
DO
- Ask what “this” is
- Name the truck later
- Stay in one room
DON'T
- Say “yeah, totally” blind
- Reverse-engineer a calendar invite
- Pitch the neighbor a fake truck
You'll split up lost tourists.
You give a lost couple two sets of directions, and by afternoon a river separates them.
A lost couple with a paper map asks you for directions, and you give them two sets, one per face. Both are confident. Both involve 'the big church.' By afternoon they're on opposite sides of the river and only one has the phone charger. Late tonight, the other half finds you, with questions. Point one direction.
DO
- Point with one hand
- Pick a single church
- Book the conference room
DON'T
- Sign both sides
- Say 'technically' to escape
- Offer to walk both halves
A lost tourist couple with a paper map will stop you outside the train station and ask for directions. You will give them two sets, one per face. Both are confident. Both involve 'the big damn church.' By afternoon they will be on opposite sides of the river, and only one of them has the phone charger. You will wave them off with both hands.
Work gets tense by lunch. Two coworkers fighting over the conference room will each ask you to take their side. You will, in writing, both times, and then book the room yourself. Avoid signing anything. Avoid the word 'technically,' which you will use as a getaway car.
Romance is in the air, both airs. Somebody cute will ask which one is the real you, and you will both answer at once. Compatibility: high with the half of the couple who got the charger. Late tonight, the other half finds you, and it has questions. Point one direction. Lucky number: 2, twice. Lucky color: two-faced taupe.
DO
- Point with one hand
- Pick a single church
- Book the conference room
DON'T
- Sign both sides
- Say 'technically' to escape
- Offer to walk both halves
-
Cancer
Bank commercial will wreck you.
A bank commercial with a grandfather and a slow piano wrecks you, and you open an account before it ends.
With the Moon, your ruler, in your 8th house of other people's money and opposing Jupiter in your 2nd, feeling something and buying something become the same act. Expect a bank commercial with a grandfather, a bike and one slow piano note to wreck you by the second chord, and an account to be opened before the logo. Mute the television during every commercial break.
DO
- Mute every ad break
- Leave the debit card upstairs
- Watch something with no grandfathers
DON'T
- Google that bank
- Text anyone about commercials
- Name the golden retriever
With your mood-ring ruler, the Moon, in Aquarius in your 8th house of other people's money and opposing Jupiter in your 2nd house of your own, the line between feeling something and buying something dissolves today. Expect a bank commercial, the kind with a grandfather teaching a kid to ride a bike and a piano playing one slow note, to get you by the second chord. Expect to open an account at that bank before the logo appears.
Mars joins Jupiter in your 2nd house, which is not a suggestion but a shove, so be wary of anything sold to you with a golden retriever, a sunrise or the word 'together.' Monthly maintenance fees will feel like family. Overdraft charges will feel like somebody looking out for you. That's the 8th house talking, and it charges a fee too.
Mercury in Scorpio in your 5th house squares the Moon, so the tenderness spills into romance, and someone you're seeing may receive a text that opens 'I just saw the most beautiful commercial.' Saturn retrograde in your 10th makes sure someone at work catches you wiping your eyes at your desk. Resist the urge to explain. Mute the television during every commercial break, and keep the debit card in another room.
DO
- Mute every ad break
- Leave the debit card upstairs
- Watch something with no grandfathers
DON'T
- Google that bank
- Text anyone about commercials
- Name the golden retriever
You'll wash one bowl furiously.
Somebody leaves one bowl in the sink, and you wash it three times, loudly, rather than say one sentence.
The Moon is in your house of other people's stuff, and the material is a cereal bowl. Somebody at home leaves one in the sink this morning, and instead of saying a word, you'll wash it at the volume of a dropped tray, sigh toward the driveway, and wash it again. By lunch you've ordered color-coded bowls. Homework: say “please rinse your bowl” out loud. No sigh.
DO
- Say “please rinse your bowl”
- Wash each bowl once
- Cancel the color-coded bowls
DON'T
- Sigh toward the driveway
- Answer “are you mad” with “no”
- Hide in a shell with cupholders
Your moody landlord the Moon is in your eighth house today, the house of other people's stuff, so the material we're working with is a cereal bowl. Somebody at home leaves one in the sink this morning, unrinsed, with a milk ring, like it pays rent. Notice what you don't do, which is say anything. What you do instead is wash it at the volume of a dropped tray, with a sigh that carries to the driveway. Then you'll wash it again. It was clean. That's not the point.
At lunch you'll order a set of four bowls online, each a different color, so everyone in the house can have “their own,” which is not a gift but a seating chart for blame. You'll describe it to somebody from work as “just practical,” and your eyes will well up on “practical.”
Tonight, someone will finally ask if you're mad, and you'll say “no” in a tone that washes the bowl a third time. Then you'll go sit in the parked car in the driveway, which is just a shell with cupholders. Homework: say, out loud, to a person, the four words “please rinse your bowl.” No sigh before. No sigh after.
DO
- Say “please rinse your bowl”
- Wash each bowl once
- Cancel the color-coded bowls
DON'T
- Sigh toward the driveway
- Answer “are you mad” with “no”
- Hide in a shell with cupholders
You'll request more hold music.
The cable company's hold voice says your call matters, so when a human answers, you beg for more hold.
Early today you call the cable company about one blinking light, and a recorded voice says your call is very important. You believe it more than anything your family has said this year. By the third loop, the smooth jazz is your song. A human answers around lunch, and you ask to be put back on hold. Hang up before dinner.
DO
- Press the power button
- Hang up before dinner
- Let the saxophone go
DON'T
- Believe the recorded voice
- Ask to go back on hold
- Ask the human to hum it
Early today you will call the cable company about one blinking light. A recorded voice will say your call is very important to them. You will believe it. You will believe it more than anything anyone in your family has said this year. The light will keep blinking. So will you.
Romance is in the air, and the air is smooth jazz. By the third loop of the hold music, it is your song. By the fifth, you have a name for the saxophone. A human finally answers around lunch, and you will ask to be put back on hold. Nobody there has been asked this. Compatibility: high with the saxophone.
Friends matter this week. A woman at the grocery store will say 'have a good one,' and you will carry it home like a baby bird. Tech support: none needed; the light was the power button. Hang up before dinner. Lucky number: 47, the minutes of hold you asked for back. Lucky color: please-continue-to-hold blue.
DO
- Press the power button
- Hang up before dinner
- Let the saxophone go
DON'T
- Believe the recorded voice
- Ask to go back on hold
- Ask the human to hum it
-
Leo
Your hair will need clearance.
Jupiter and Mars share your 1st house, the stylist obeys 'more volume,' and you leave needing clearance in doorways.
With Mars and Jupiter both in your 1st house, the scissors and the hair spray of the zodiac are working the same chair. Tell the stylist 'more volume' today and Jupiter takes you literally. A roommate will have to step sideways in the hallway to pass you, and the neighbors will stare in a silence you'll mistake for awe. Turn sideways in every doorway.
DO
- Turn sideways in doorways
- Tip the stylist for structural work
- Duck for ceiling fans
DON'T
- Say 'more volume'
- Attempt a hat
- Get in a Honda Civic
With Mars and Jupiter both in Leo in your 1st house of appearance, the scissors and the hair spray of the zodiac are working the same chair. Expect a haircut today, or at least a trim you'll describe as a haircut. Jupiter enlarges whatever it touches and Mars cuts whatever it touches, and when you tell the stylist 'more volume,' both of them will take you at your word.
Mercury in Scorpio sits in your 4th house of home and squares Jupiter, so tonight's conversation at home will be about the hair, and it will be bigger than the hair. The Moon in your 7th opposes Jupiter, which means a partner or roommate may have to step sideways in the hallway to get past you. Be wary of hats. Hats were not built for this transit.
The Sun, your ruler, is in Libra in your 3rd house of neighbors and short trips, so the whole block sees it on the walk to the mailbox and nobody says a word, which you will interpret as awe. Mars trine Saturn grants you structural integrity and nothing else. Turn sideways in every doorway, and duck for ceiling fans.
DO
- Turn sideways in doorways
- Tip the stylist for structural work
- Duck for ceiling fans
DON'T
- Say 'more volume'
- Attempt a hat
- Get in a Honda Civic
Your congratulations will feature you.
A friend gets the job, and your four-paragraph congratulations text, mostly about you, gets more hearts than her announcement.
Mars and Jupiter crowd your first house, and the material is the spotlight pointed elsewhere. This morning a friend announces she got the job. You'll start typing “so proud of you!!” and finish four paragraphs later, covering your own interview, your blazer, and a lesson you learned. It gets more hearts than her news. Homework: tomorrow, text her “congrats.” No exclamation point. Sit in the dark.
DO
- Reply in one word
- Let her keep the hearts
- Leave the blazer out of it
DON'T
- Mention your own interview
- Screenshot your heart count
- Read your text aloud at dinner
The sky's two loudest show-offs, Mars and Jupiter, are both in your first house today, which is a lot of planet for one ego, and the material we're working with is the spotlight, briefly pointed somewhere else. Sometime this morning a friend announces in the group chat that she got the job. Notice the flicker. We've been over this: it isn't jealousy. It's the inner child checking whether there's still enough light for everyone, by which it means you.
At work you'll start typing “so proud of you!!” and three drafts later it's four paragraphs: your own big interview, the blazer you wore to it, and a lesson about believing in yourself that you, specifically, learned. It will get more hearts than her announcement. You'll screenshot the hearts.
Tonight, somebody at dinner brings up her news, and you'll say, “I know, I was so supportive,” and then read your message aloud, with pauses for effect. Homework: tomorrow, text her the word “congrats.” Nothing else. No exclamation point. Then sit in the dark it leaves.
DO
- Reply in one word
- Let her keep the hearts
- Leave the blazer out of it
DON'T
- Mention your own interview
- Screenshot your heart count
- Read your text aloud at dinner
Your voicemail will need intermission.
Your voicemail greeting grows to four minutes with a pause for applause, and your mother hangs up before the beep.
This morning you re-record your voicemail greeting until it has a cold open, a second verse and a pause for applause. It runs four minutes. Your mother hears the cold open and hangs up before the beep. Someone from work can't reach the beep either, approves an invoice without you, and gets praised for initiative. Cut it to one sentence.
DO
- Say your name once
- Cut the second verse
- Call your mother back
DON'T
- Re-record with better lighting
- Leave a pause for applause
- Add director's commentary
Stop the presses this morning: you will re-record your voicemail greeting. Then again. Then with better lighting, which is not how voicemail works. By lunch it has a cold open, a second verse, an intermission and a pause for applause. It runs four minutes. Your phone will ask, politely, if you would like to free up storage.
Family news this afternoon. Your mother calls, hears the cold open, and hangs up before the beep. A bored telemarketer stays for the whole thing, applauds at the end, and asks for the name of your agent. Love life: an old flame calls by accident, survives the greeting, and remembers exactly why it's an old flame.
Money matters come to a head when someone from work needs a yes on an invoice and can't reach the beep. They approve it themselves, and the boss loves their initiative. Avoid microphones, mirrors and the word 'encore.' Cut the greeting to one sentence. Lucky number: 4, the minutes before the beep. Lucky color: standing-ovation gold, unreceived.
DO
- Say your name once
- Cut the second verse
- Call your mother back
DON'T
- Re-record with better lighting
- Leave a pause for applause
- Add director's commentary
-
Virgo
You'll re-sort the neighbor's recycling.
Mercury drags you into the neighbor's recycling to re-sort it, and the neighbor accepts the city's gold sticker for it.
With Mercury, your ruler, in your 3rd house of neighbors and squaring Jupiter in your 12th, a private crusade goes public. Expect a greasy pizza box on the neighbor's clean cardboard, and your hands in that bin by evening. Then expect the neighbor to accept the city's gold 'Recycling Star' sticker on the porch while you hold a rinsed yogurt cup. Leave the bin. Walk past the bin.
DO
- Walk past the bin
- Rinse only your own yogurt
- Applaud the sticker through teeth
DON'T
- Lift the neighbor's lid
- Touch anyone's inbox
- Leave the neighbor a laminated chart
With Mercury, your ruler, in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors, your attention turns investigative and points next door. Expect to walk past the neighbor's recycling bin, spot a greasy pizza box lying on top of clean cardboard, and feel it in your molars. Mercury in Scorpio does not glance. It sorts. Resist the urge to lift the lid. You won't, and once the lid is up, the evening is gone.
Mercury squares Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, which means what you do in the dark gets enormous and, eventually, public. Expect the city's recycling truck to leave a gold 'Recycling Star' sticker on that bin, and expect the neighbor to accept it on the porch like an Oscar while you stand there holding a rinsed yogurt cup. Mars in your 12th keeps the rage private and fully loaded.
The Moon in Aquarius in your 6th house of work routine squares Mercury, so somebody at work will show you an inbox with four thousand unread emails, and you will need to sit down. This is not the day to offer help. Leave the bin. Walk past the bin. The pizza box is not your child.
DO
- Walk past the bin
- Rinse only your own yogurt
- Applaud the sticker through teeth
DON'T
- Lift the neighbor's lid
- Touch anyone's inbox
- Leave the neighbor a laminated chart
Friend will read every draft.
You edit a three-word text nine times, and your friend taps “Edited” and reads every version, semicolon included.
Mercury is in your texting house, so the material is words you've already sent. A friend asks about Sunday dinner; you reply “Sure, sounds good,” then notice the comma. By lunch you've edited it nine times under the conference table, semicolon included. The phone keeps every version. Your friend will tap “Edited.” Homework: send one text with a typo and leave it there.
DO
- Send the first draft
- Leave one typo alive
- Answer “are you ok” once
DON'T
- Edit under the conference table
- Fix a comma nobody noticed
- Deploy a semicolon at a friend
Your nitpicking ruler Mercury is moving through your third house today, the house of texting, so the material we're working with is words you've already sent. This morning a friend asks if you can do dinner Sunday. You'll reply “Sure, sounds good.” Then you'll notice the comma.
By lunch you'll have edited it nine times, phone under the conference table. “Sure” becomes “Yes,” becomes “Yes!,” becomes a version with a semicolon you'll be proud of for most of a meeting. What you're managing is the fear that the first draft made you look careless. What you've forgotten is that the phone keeps every version, and one tap on the little word “Edited” shows them all. Your friend will tap. Your friend will read the entire archaeology of “sure.”
Tonight they'll reply “lol are you ok,” and you'll draft four answers to that. Homework: send one text with a typo in it and do not fix it. Lowercase. No period. Let it live out there, wrong, where everyone can see.
DO
- Send the first draft
- Leave one typo alive
- Answer “are you ok” once
DON'T
- Edit under the conference table
- Fix a comma nobody noticed
- Deploy a semicolon at a friend
Coworkers will label you back.
You purge every unlabeled thing from the office fridge, and by afternoon your back says CONTENTS MAY INCLUDE OPINIONS.
At work you clean out the office fridge, and everything without a label goes, including somebody's lunch. By afternoon, coworkers label you back: EXPIRES FRIDAY on your monitor, NOT YOURS on your stapler, and CONTENTS MAY INCLUDE OPINIONS on your back, where it stays for hours. You spot it tonight in the bathroom mirror. Peel it off and say nothing.
DO
- Check your back hourly
- Peel it off quietly
- Replace somebody's lunch
DON'T
- Label the trash bag
- Say 'just so everyone knows'
- Correct the Post-it's kerning
Big shake-up at work today: you clean out the office fridge. Everything without a label goes. Then you label the trash bag. Then the label maker. A yogurt from March is finally set free. Somebody from accounting watches their lunch go in and says nothing, which should frighten you more than any expiration date.
By afternoon, retaliation. Coworkers will label you back. A Post-it on your monitor: EXPIRES FRIDAY. One on your stapler: NOT YOURS. One on your back, there for hours: CONTENTS MAY INCLUDE OPINIONS. Nobody tells you. A stranger in the elevator reads it and laughs, and in this economy that counts as romance.
Home tonight, you finally spot the one on your back in the bathroom mirror. Compatibility: high with the label maker, low with anyone holding a Sharpie. Avoid the break room and the phrase 'just so everyone knows.' Peel it off and say nothing, even about their kerning. Lucky number: 9, the labels still out there. Lucky color: Sharpie black, fine point.
DO
- Check your back hourly
- Peel it off quietly
- Replace somebody's lunch
DON'T
- Label the trash bag
- Say 'just so everyone knows'
- Correct the Post-it's kerning
-
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON
Smoke alarm will end deliberations.
Friends light too many birthday-season candles, you weigh three wishes, and the smoke alarm decides before you do.
With the Sun in your 1st and Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends, it's still your season and somebody is lighting too many candles. Venus, your ruler, retrograde and squaring Pluto, turns the wish into a negotiation: love, money, fairness. Wax hits the frosting, a friend starts fanning, and the smoke alarm makes the call. Pick the wish before the match is struck.
DO
- Pre-select a wish
- Locate the smoke detector
- Blow on the count of three
DON'T
- Poll the table
- Make a pros-and-cons list
- Wish for whatever everyone wants
With the Sun in Libra in your 1st house, it is still your season, and with Mars and Jupiter in Leo in your 11th house of friends, those friends will insist on a cake, early or late, and they will insist on candles. Jupiter loves a crowd and counts generously. Expect too many candles, all lit at once, and every face at the table turned toward you, waiting for a wish.
Sun conjunct Venus would normally make this sweet, but your ruler Venus is retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house and squaring Pluto in your 5th house of fun, which turns the wish into a negotiation. Be wary of weighing a wish for love against a wish for money against a wish that's fair to everyone at the table. The candles will not wait. Wax will reach the frosting. A friend will start fanning.
Saturn, retrograde in your 7th, has watched a partner wait out your menu decisions for years and has opinions. Expect the smoke detector to make the final call before you do, and a friend on a chair waving a dish towel at the ceiling while the rest sing a second chorus. Pick one wish before the match is struck. Then blow.
DO
- Pre-select a wish
- Locate the smoke detector
- Blow on the count of three
DON'T
- Poll the table
- Make a pros-and-cons list
- Wish for whatever everyone wants
They'll return your birthday present.
You tell someone you want nothing for your birthday, and tonight they return the gift they'd already bought.
It's your season and Venus is backing through your money house, so the material is what you think you're worth. This morning someone who loves you asks what you want for your birthday, and you'll chirp “Oh, nothing!” in your waiter voice. Tonight they take you at your word and return the gift they'd already bought. Homework: name one object out loud. Brand, color, size.
DO
- Name one actual object
- Say brand, color, size
- Let someone get it right
DON'T
- Say “oh, nothing!”
- Abandon the pasta maker
- Thank them for returning it
It's your season, the Sun is in your sign, and your ruler, backpedaling Venus, is retrograde through your money house, so the material we're working with is what you think you're worth. Sometime this morning someone who loves you asks, plainly, what you want for your birthday. Notice the reflex. You'll say “Oh, nothing, I don't need anything!” in the bright voice you use on waiters, because naming a want feels like picking a fight with someone who hasn't done anything.
At lunch you'll build the wishlist you'll never send: a sweater, a lamp, a pasta maker. You'll put all three in the cart, then abandon the cart, so none of them has to feel unchosen and nobody has to know your taste comes with a price tag.
Tonight they take you at your word. They'll tell you, sweetly, that they returned the thing they'd already bought, since you were so clear. You'll say “Oh, perfect!” and mean the opposite with your entire face. Homework: name one object out loud. Brand, color, size. Do not add “or whatever.”
DO
- Name one actual object
- Say brand, color, size
- Let someone get it right
DON'T
- Say “oh, nothing!”
- Abandon the pasta maker
- Thank them for returning it
Four-way stop will trap you.
You wave everyone through a four-way stop until traffic reaches the Dollar General and a crossing guard intervenes.
This morning you reach a four-way stop with three other cars and wave the first one through, then the second, then the first again, which has circled the block to check on you. Traffic backs up past the Dollar General until a crossing guard is called in. She has watched kindergartners pick a crayon faster. When it's your turn, go.
DO
- Go when it's your turn
- Obey the crossing guard
- Let go of the door
DON'T
- Wave the same car twice
- Make eye contact with pickups
- Hold the door through dessert
On the drive in this morning, you will reach a four-way stop at the exact moment three other cars do. You wave the first one through. Then the second. Then the third. Then the first one again, which has driven around the block to see if you're all right. Nobody behind you is all right.
Traffic will back up past the Dollar General. A crossing guard from the elementary school is called in, vest and all. She has watched kindergartners pick a crayon faster. At work, your boss asks why you're late, and you'll offer to let someone else answer first. Avoid eye contact with anyone in a pickup.
Love: tonight somebody sweet reaches for the same door you do, and you will both hold it for the length of a short film. Compatibility: high with the crossing guard, who now has your plate number. When it's your turn, go. Lucky number: 4, the ways you could have gone. Lucky color: yield-sign yellow.
DO
- Go when it's your turn
- Obey the crossing guard
- Let go of the door
DON'T
- Wave the same car twice
- Make eye contact with pickups
- Hold the door through dessert
-
Scorpio
Your dot will betray you.
A relative finds your location dot, and your mysterious inner life turns out to be three daily Walgreens trips.
With Pluto, your ruler, in your 4th house of family and Venus retrograde squaring it to the degree, the mystique you've cultivated since middle school gets audited through location sharing. Expect a relative to find your dot and the group chat to learn your unknowable inner life is three daily Walgreens trips. Don't switch it off; that's the most suspicious move left. Let them watch you buy gum.
DO
- Leave the dot on
- Vary your pharmacy
- Buy one sinister-looking item
DON'T
- Explain the Panera parking lot
- Switch location sharing off
- Wear sunglasses into Walgreens
With your basement-dwelling ruler Pluto in Aquarius in your 4th house of home and family, and the Moon passing through the same house, the family's attention turns to you, and today it arrives through location sharing. Expect a relative to discover your little dot on the map. Expect the relative to follow it. With Venus retrograde in Scorpio squaring Pluto to the degree, the mystique you've cultivated since middle school is about to be audited by someone who still uses your childhood nickname.
Mercury in Scorpio in your 1st house squares the Moon, and the dot does the talking. Be wary of the family group chat. It will learn that your brooding, unknowable inner life consists of three trips a day to the same Walgreens and one long, unexplained pause in a Panera parking lot. Nobody will ask what you were doing in the parking lot. That is somehow worse.
Mars and Jupiter in your 10th push you to look powerful at work, but Saturn retrograde in your 6th insists the routine is the routine, and the routine is Walgreens. Resist the urge to switch location sharing off. Switching it off is the most suspicious thing you have ever done. Leave the dot on and let them watch you buy gum.
DO
- Leave the dot on
- Vary your pharmacy
- Buy one sinister-looking item
DON'T
- Explain the Panera parking lot
- Switch location sharing off
- Wear sunglasses into Walgreens
You'll become their emergency contact.
You dodge one question about your weekend with forty of your own, and become a coworker's emergency contact.
Mercury and Venus sit in your first house, so the material is being looked at. Early at work, somebody from accounting asks about your weekend; it lands like a subpoena. You'll say “this and that,” then interrogate them until lunch: landlord, sourdough, the regional manager. Tonight they list you as their emergency contact, with a heart. Homework: tell them one boring true fact. The grocery store counts.
DO
- Admit to the grocery store
- Answer one question first
- Accept the heart
DON'T
- Hear small talk as a subpoena
- Ask the follow-up's follow-up
- Run perimeter defense at accounting
Gossipy Mercury and needy Venus are both in your first house today, so the material we're working with is exposure: being looked at, directly, by someone curious. Early at work, somebody from accounting asks what you did over the weekend. Notice how it lands, like a subpoena. You'll say “Oh, this and that,” and before they can follow up, you'll ask them a question back. Then four. Then the follow-ups to the follow-ups.
By lunch you'll know about their landlord, their sourdough starter, their brother's regrettable tattoo, and what they really think of the regional manager. They'll experience this as the deepest conversation of their adult life. You'll experience it as a successful perimeter defense, and you won't notice the exact moment the perimeter turned into a friendship.
Tonight, at home, a text: they've updated their HR paperwork and listed you as their emergency contact, with a heart. You know everything about this person. They know you did “this and that.” Homework: tomorrow, tell them one true, boring fact about your weekend. The grocery store counts. Watch the building not collapse.
DO
- Admit to the grocery store
- Answer one question first
- Accept the heart
DON'T
- Hear small talk as a subpoena
- Ask the follow-up's follow-up
- Run perimeter defense at accounting
You'll investigate your own handwriting.
You build a red-string case around a stranger's grocery list, and late tonight you recognize the handwriting: yours.
This afternoon a stranger's grocery list waits in your cart: eggs, batteries, duct tape, 'Call him back??' You know at once this person is hiding something. By evening there's a corkboard and red string. Late tonight the handwriting looks familiar. The list is yours, from last Tuesday, and so is the cart. 'Him' is the gutter guy you've ghosted. Take down the string.
DO
- Take down the string
- Buy the batteries
- Call the gutter guy back
DON'T
- Text 'don't ask, just come over'
- Suspect the neighbor's batteries
- Dust the cart for prints
A stranger's grocery list will be waiting in your cart at the store this afternoon. Eggs. Batteries. Duct tape. 'Call him back??' Two exclamation marks would be innocent. Two question marks mean something. You will know at once that this person is hiding something. You will be right. You will leave the eggs in the cart as bait.
By evening, a corkboard. Red string. A theory about the batteries that involves the neighbor. You'll text two friends 'don't ask, just come over,' and they will come over, and they will ask. Compatibility: high with true-crime podcasts, low with daylight. Avoid parking garages and anyone who opens with 'so, what's new.'
Late tonight the handwriting starts to look familiar. The duct tape is for the hallway rug. 'Him' is the gutter guy you've ghosted since August. The list is yours, from last Tuesday, and so, it turns out, is the cart. Take down the string and call him back. Lucky number: 2, the batteries you still need. Lucky color: evidence-bag clear.
DO
- Take down the string
- Buy the batteries
- Call the gutter guy back
DON'T
- Text 'don't ask, just come over'
- Suspect the neighbor's batteries
- Dust the cart for prints
-
Sagittarius
You'll finally unpack from August.
You finally unpack the suitcase from August, and the front pocket holds what used to be a sandwich.
With Jupiter, your ruler, in your 9th house of travel, your mind is already at a gate you haven't booked, but the Moon opposes it from your 3rd and drags you to the bedroom floor and the suitcase open since August. Mercury squares Jupiter from your 12th, so the front pocket gives up its secret: a napkin that once held a sandwich. Unpack it all. Don't open the napkin.
DO
- Empty the front pocket
- Return the stranger's sock somehow
- Bin the napkin unopened
DON'T
- Book a trip to avoid this
- Slide it under the bed
- Sniff the napkin to check
With the zodiac's biggest mouth, Jupiter, your ruler, in Leo in your 9th house of travel alongside Mars, your mind is already at a gate you haven't booked. But the Moon in your 3rd house opposes Jupiter today and drags you back to the short trip, the neighborhood, the bedroom floor, where the suitcase from August has been lying open like a crime scene for two months. Expect to finally unpack it.
Mercury in Scorpio squares Jupiter from your 12th house of secrets, so the suitcase will give up what it's been keeping from you. Be wary of the zippered front pocket. Expect a boarding pass, a key card for a hotel that has since rebranded, one sock that isn't yours, and something wrapped in a napkin that was, at one point in August, a sandwich. The sandwich has developed opinions.
Saturn retrograde in your 5th house reviews every fun thing you've walked away from, and today it starts with the luggage. Resist the urge to zip it back up and slide it under the bed for next time. Resist booking the next trip to escape this one. Unpack it, all of it, the pocket too, and throw out the napkin without opening it.
DO
- Empty the front pocket
- Return the stranger's sock somehow
- Bin the napkin unopened
DON'T
- Book a trip to avoid this
- Slide it under the bed
- Sniff the napkin to check
You'll call her couch brave.
A friend shows you her new mustard sectional, you say “brave,” and she seats you on it Saturday.
Mercury squares your ruler Jupiter, and the material is the napkin-width gap between what you think and what you say. This afternoon a friend shows you her new eleven-foot mustard velvet sectional, and you'll say “Wow. Brave.” Then you'll price flights to Lisbon instead of apologizing. Tonight she assigns you a seat on it Saturday. Homework: sit. Say one nice true thing. “Sturdy” counts.
DO
- Go to the housewarming
- Praise the sectional's sturdiness
- Close the Lisbon tab
DON'T
- Say “brave” about furniture
- Call bluntness respect
- Mention visibility from the street
Mercury squares yes-man Jupiter, your ruler, today, and the material we're working with is the gap between what you think and what you say, which for you is roughly the width of a cocktail napkin. This afternoon a friend shows you a photo of the sectional she just bought: mustard velvet, eleven feet, already delivered. You'll look at it for one second and say, “Wow. Brave.”
Notice what you do next, because that's the pattern. You won't apologize. You'll explain that bluntness is a form of respect, then, back at your desk, price one-way flights to Lisbon during a budget meeting, which is what you do with discomfort: put an ocean on it. Jupiter's in your travel house, egging you on, which doesn't help.
Tonight she texts that you're coming to her housewarming Saturday, and that you'll be sitting on the brave couch. Not a question. A seating assignment. Your homework: go. Sit on it. Say one nice, true thing about it. “Sturdy” counts. “Very visible from the street” does not.
DO
- Go to the housewarming
- Praise the sectional's sturdiness
- Close the Lisbon tab
DON'T
- Say “brave” about furniture
- Call bluntness respect
- Mention visibility from the street
You'll convert to sea moss.
One sample spoon of sea moss at the farmers market, and by the parking lot you've replaced last week's religion.
This morning a woman at the farmers market hands you a sample spoon of sea moss gel, and by the parking lot you believe in it more than last week's cold plunges. Three friends get a voice memo titled 'okay, hear me out.' One asks if this is like the kombucha thing. It is. Walk past the sample spoons.
DO
- Walk past the sample spoons
- Admit it's the kombucha thing
- Leave the jars in the trunk
DON'T
- Record 'okay, hear me out'
- Sign on a folding table
- Hear out the jerky man
A woman at the farmers market will hand you a sample spoon of sea moss gel this morning. You will feel something. It is algae. By the parking lot you will believe in sea moss more than anything you believed in last week, which was cold plunges, which replaced the Stoics, which replaced some asshole with a kettlebell.
Friends will be contacted. Three of them get a voice memo titled 'okay, hear me out.' One leaves you on read. One buys a jar to make it stop. One asks if this is like the kombucha thing, and it is exactly like the kombucha thing, down to the jar.
Work news by afternoon: you'll ask the sea moss woman about a franchise. She'll offer you a Saturday shift. You will quit by Thursday, because two stalls down a man sells mushroom jerky with a philosophy. Avoid signing anything on a folding table. Walk past the sample spoons. Lucky number: 11, the jars in your trunk. Lucky color: pond-scum green.
DO
- Walk past the sample spoons
- Admit it's the kombucha thing
- Leave the jars in the trunk
DON'T
- Record 'okay, hear me out'
- Sign on a folding table
- Hear out the jerky man
-
Capricorn
You'll turn into your father.
Saturn retrograde in your 4th reruns your father: you turn off lights in occupied rooms and lecture a phone charger.
With Saturn, your ruler, retrograde in your 4th house of family and the past, the past comes home through your mouth. Expect your father's exact sentences in his exact tone, 'Do I look like I'm made of money?' included. With the Moon in your 2nd, you'll kill lights in rooms people are reading in and lecture an idle phone charger. Turn off one more light on your way out.
DO
- Unplug the idle chargers
- Cite the sweater
- Answer to 'Dad' with dignity
DON'T
- Pretend it's a joke
- Ask who's paying for this
- Buy New Balance today
With your disapproving landlord of a ruler, Saturn, retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home, family and the past, the past comes home through your own mouth. Expect a sentence your father said to you when you were nine to leave your face word for word, in his exact tone. 'Were you born in a barn?' 'Do I look like I'm made of money?' Saturn retrograde doesn't write new material. It reruns.
The Moon in your 2nd house of money makes the electric bill personal, so be wary of walking through the house turning off lights in rooms where people are still reading. Mars trine Saturn gives you the stamina for a full lap. Expect to unplug a phone charger nobody is using and lecture it about vampire power. Expect someone to call you 'Dad,' and expect not to correct them.
Mercury and Venus sit in your 11th house of friends, Venus retrograde, so old friends will catch the transformation in the group chat when you answer a vacation photo with 'Who's paying for all this?' Resist the urge to call it a joke. It isn't. You meant every damn word. Turn off one more light on your way out, and tell everyone that's what the sweater is for.
DO
- Unplug the idle chargers
- Cite the sweater
- Answer to 'Dad' with dignity
DON'T
- Pretend it's a joke
- Ask who's paying for this
- Buy New Balance today
Free dinner will cost you.
A friend picks up your dinner check, and by late tonight you've retaliated with a bigger gift card.
Jupiter and Mars sit in your house of other people's money, so the material is the phrase “I've got this.” After work, a friend pays for dinner before you finish the math, and you'll feel an unsecured loan land on you. You'll Venmo them twice; they'll decline twice. Late tonight you'll buy them a bigger gift card. Homework: say “thank you.” Attach no number.
DO
- Say “thank you” only
- Let the Venmo stay declined
- Enjoy dessert you didn't fund
DON'T
- Recalculate their tip in the parking lot
- Buy a retaliatory gift card
- Treat generosity as a hostile takeover
Big-spending Jupiter and hothead Mars are in your eighth house today, the house of other people's money, so the material we're working with is a sentence you hate more than “let's circle back”: “I've got this.” After work, at dinner, a friend hands the server a card before you've finished doing the math. Notice your jaw. To most people that's a treat. To you it's an unsecured loan you never applied for.
You'll Venmo them before the dessert menu arrives, memo “for dinner!!”, the exclamation points doing a lot of load-bearing work. They'll decline it. In your framework, declining is a hostile act. In the parking lot you'll recalculate with their tip, round up, and send again. Declined.
Late tonight, at home, you'll order them a gift card to the same restaurant, for more than the meal cost, which means another dinner, which means they'll try this again. That's the loop, and you built it like a payroll system. Homework: tomorrow, tell them “thank you” and nothing else. No number attached. Notice how expensive that feels.
DO
- Say “thank you” only
- Let the Venmo stay declined
- Enjoy dessert you didn't fund
DON'T
- Recalculate their tip in the parking lot
- Buy a retaliatory gift card
- Treat generosity as a hostile takeover
You'll return the fortune cookie.
Your fortune cookie says 'Relax. You have earned it,' and you march it back to the restaurant demanding a recount.
At your desk again, takeout over a spreadsheet, the fortune cookie says 'Relax. You have earned it.' You read it as an accusation and walk it back to the restaurant to ask who authorized this. Your replacement cookies say 'Rest is wealth,' 'Take the afternoon' and just 'Please.' You file them all under Disputed. Eat the cookie and obey it.
DO
- Eat the cookie
- Take the afternoon
- Let the nap happen
DON'T
- Ask who authorized it
- Schedule the bath for 2027
- Write up your own body
Lunch at your desk again, fourth day running, takeout over a spreadsheet. The fortune cookie will say 'Relax. You have earned it.' You will read this as an accusation. You will walk it back to the restaurant and ask to see whoever authorized this. The cook comes out. He has also never relaxed.
Negotiations stall: you will demand a replacement cookie and get four. 'Rest is wealth.' 'Take the afternoon.' 'Your inbox can wait.' The fourth just says 'Please.' A stranger at the next table offers to trade his. His says 'Relax' too. You'll file all five under Disputed.
Home tonight: somebody who loves you will suggest a bath. You'll schedule it for the second quarter of 2027, pending budget. Your body will try to nap on the couch; you'll write it up for insubordination. Avoid anything labeled 'unwind.' Compatibility: high with the cook. Eat the cookie and obey it. Lucky number: 5, the fortunes you disputed. Lucky color: unpaid-overtime gray.
DO
- Eat the cookie
- Take the afternoon
- Let the nap happen
DON'T
- Ask who authorized it
- Schedule the bath for 2027
- Write up your own body
-
Aquarius
A feeling will arrive uninvited.
A feeling hits you at work, and you diagram it on the whiteboard where the whole office can see it.
With the Moon in your 1st house beside Pluto, a feeling is scheduled to visit you today, and you'll treat it like a foreign object in the machine. The Moon squares Mercury in your 10th, so it arrives at work, where you'll call it 'an interesting phenomenon' and diagram it on the whiteboard. Venus retrograde makes sure the whole floor sees. Have the feeling. Don't cite a source.
DO
- Feel it in under ten words
- Erase the whiteboard
- Pet the dog, skip the theory
DON'T
- Call it a phenomenon
- Draw axes on it
- Cite a source for your feelings
With the Moon in Aquarius in your 1st house, sharing the room with Pluto and the North Node, an emotion is scheduled to visit you directly today, which for you is about as welcome as a pop quiz in a language you don't take. Expect to feel something specific, possibly at your desk, possibly about a dog waiting in a parked car, and expect to treat it like a foreign object lodged in the machine.
The Moon squares Mercury in your 10th house of career, so the feeling arrives at work, and you'll try to handle it the way you handle everything, by describing it. Be wary of telling someone from work, 'I'm noticing an interesting phenomenon in myself,' and of drawing it on the whiteboard with axes. Venus, retrograde in your 10th and squaring Pluto in your 1st, makes sure the whole floor sees the diagram.
Mars and Jupiter in Leo in your 7th house hand a partner or close friend the megaphone tonight, and when they ask how you're feeling, you'll answer with a framework. Uranus, your contrarian ruler, is retrograde in your 5th, so even your quirkiness is in reruns. This is not the day to theorize. Have the feeling, say it in under ten words, and do not cite a source.
DO
- Feel it in under ten words
- Erase the whiteboard
- Pet the dog, skip the theory
DON'T
- Call it a phenomenon
- Draw axes on it
- Cite a source for your feelings
You'll counter “babe” with “comrade.”
Somebody who's into you calls you “babe” at the grocery store, and you counter with “comrade,” which the cashier adopts.
The Moon sits in your sign with Jupiter staring back from your partnership house, so the material is closeness you didn't approve. This afternoon, by the bananas, somebody who's into you calls you “babe.” You'll call pet names “prescriptive” and counter with “comrade,” defending it the length of the checkout line until the cashier adopts it. Homework: say “babe” back. Once. No footnote.
DO
- Say “babe” back once
- Tolerate one pet name
- Let the cashier off the hook
DON'T
- Call pet names prescriptive
- Defend it the whole checkout line
- Counter affection with “comrade”
The nosy Moon is in your sign today, sitting in your first house, with Jupiter staring back from your partnership house, so the material we're working with is closeness at a volume you didn't approve. Sometime this afternoon, somebody who's into you will call you “babe” in public. Casually. At the grocery store, by the bananas. Notice what comes up: not warmth, but the specific horror of being categorized.
You'll say, very calmly, that pet names feel “a little prescriptive,” and propose an alternative. The alternative will be “comrade.” You'll defend it the whole length of the checkout line, and the cashier will start saying it too. By evening it's in the group chat, and your friends will never call you anything else. That's the pattern: you'd rather run an ideology than be held by one word.
Late tonight, alone, you'll replay “babe” and feel, briefly and unmistakably, pleased. You'll find this alarming and read about collective farming until it passes. Homework: tomorrow, say “babe” back. Once. Unironically. No footnote.
DO
- Say “babe” back once
- Tolerate one pet name
- Let the cashier off the hook
DON'T
- Call pet names prescriptive
- Defend it the whole checkout line
- Counter affection with “comrade”
Vampire will refund your ticket.
You explain the jump scare's history to a haunted-house zombie until a vampire refunds you just to make it stop.
Tonight you take the nosy, two-thirds-lit Moon to a haunted house and ask a man with a chainless chainsaw whether he's paid hourly or per scare. By the third room you're explaining the history of the jump scare to a zombie, with citations. A vampire walks you out the emergency exit and refunds your twenty-two dollars himself. Scream once, like a regular person.
DO
- Scream once, like a person
- Take the refund
- Let the zombie work
DON'T
- Ask about per-scare rates
- Cite sources to a zombie
- Explain the fog machine
The nosy, two-thirds-lit Moon is in your sign, and tonight you will take it to a haunted house. A man in a hockey mask lunges with a chainsaw that has no chain. You will ask him whether he is paid hourly or per scare, and whether those rates are posted.
Windfall alert: by the third room you will be explaining the history of the jump scare to a zombie, with citations. The zombie breaks character. Then the witch. A vampire walks you out through the emergency exit and refunds your twenty-two dollars from his own cape pocket, just to make it end.
Friends: the one who brought you will pretend not to know you by the second hallway, and in your sign that counts as a deep bond. Compatibility: high with the zombie, who now follows your newsletter. Avoid fog machines; you have a take on them. Scream once tonight, like a regular person. Lucky number: 22, the dollars refunded. Lucky color: corn-syrup blood red.
DO
- Scream once, like a person
- Take the refund
- Let the zombie work
DON'T
- Ask about per-scare rates
- Cite sources to a zombie
- Explain the fog machine
-
Pisces
You'll give away your jacket.
Somebody compliments your jacket, Neptune makes you hand it over, and your keys leave in the pocket.
With Neptune, your ruler, retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, what's yours and what's anybody's goes soft. Expect somebody at a bus stop to admire your jacket and be wearing it before they finish the sentence. Uranus sextile Neptune hits your 4th house: your keys were in the pocket, and you're on your own porch, shivering. Keep the jacket on. Say thank you like a normal person.
DO
- Say thanks and keep walking
- Keys in your fist
- Accept compliments from a distance
DON'T
- Unzip near admirers
- Take three extra tasks
- Hand over the pants too
With your fog-machine ruler Neptune retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money and possessions, the boundary between what's yours and what's anybody's goes soft. Expect somebody, a stranger at a bus stop or someone from work you've spoken to twice, to say they like your jacket. Expect to take it off and hand it over before they finish the sentence. Neptune doesn't loan. Neptune dissolves.
Neptune sextiles Pluto in your 12th house, so the giveaway will feel spiritual, a small sacrament, right up until Saturn, also retrograde in your 2nd, sends the wind. Be wary of the walk home in October in a T-shirt. Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of work routine mean you'll also be handed three extra tasks, because a person who gives away a jacket will clearly take a spreadsheet.
Uranus sextile Neptune drops a surprise into your 4th house of home, and the surprise is that the jacket had your keys in it. Expect to stand on your own porch, shivering, composing a gentle message to somebody whose name you never got. This is not the day to be moved by a compliment. Keep the jacket on, keys in your fist, and say thank you like a normal person.
DO
- Say thanks and keep walking
- Keys in your fist
- Accept compliments from a distance
DON'T
- Unzip near admirers
- Take three extra tasks
- Hand over the pants too
Bank notification will stay unopened.
Your bank sends a notification, you spend the day weeping over it unopened, and it's a $6.40 refund.
Neptune is retrograde in your money house, so the material is a number. Early, your bank sends a notification, and you won't open it. You'll bury the phone in the supply closet, pull a tarot card about it on the same phone, and cry in the bath tonight over a figure you've never seen. It's a $6.40 refund. Homework: open it. Read the number aloud.
DO
- Open the notification
- Read the number aloud
- Retrieve your bag from the closet
DON'T
- Pull a tarot card about it
- Mistake dread for intuition
- Cry in the bath over $6.40
Your foggy ruler Neptune is retrograde in your money house today, with Saturn parked right beside it, so the material we're working with is a number. Early, your phone lights up with a notification from your bank. You won't open it. Notice how fast the not-opening happens, before a single thought arrives. That's the tide going out.
At work you'll put the phone face down, then in your bag, then in the bag in the supply closet. You'll tell somebody from work that you “have a feeling” about today, and you'll mistake it for intuition. By afternoon you'll pull a tarot card about the notification from an app on the same phone, a level of avoidance that requires opening the phone and carefully not looking.
Tonight you'll run a bath, put on a playlist called something like “rain on a lighthouse,” and cry the specific tears of someone heartbroken by a number they've never seen. That's the pattern: a feeling in place of a fact, because a feeling you can float in. The notification, for the record, is a $6.40 refund. Homework: open it. Read the number out loud. Then cry about six dollars if you need to; at least it'll be about something.
DO
- Open the notification
- Read the number aloud
- Retrieve your bag from the closet
DON'T
- Pull a tarot card about it
- Mistake dread for intuition
- Cry in the bath over $6.40
You'll join the mime's box.
You try to rescue a mime from his invisible box, and by evening neither of you can find the door.
Downtown this afternoon a street mime is trapped in an invisible box, and you don't see a performance, you see a man in trouble. You press your palms to the glass while he whispers, 'Please. This is my job.' By evening you're in the box with him, and neither of you can find the door. Step out of the box.
DO
- Keep walking past mimes
- Take your half in quarters
- Step out of the box
DON'T
- Look for a seam
- Mime the heart back
- Ask the mime for directions out
Downtown this afternoon, a street mime will be trapped in an invisible box. You will not see a performance. You will see a man in trouble. You'll press your palms against the glass from outside, trying to find a seam, while a tourist films and the mime whispers, 'Please. This is my job.'
By evening you are in the box with him. Neither of you can find the door, because there is no door, because there is no box. The crowd triples. The hat on the sidewalk fills. Money finds you: forty-one dollars, split down the middle, mostly quarters and one Dave & Buster's card.
Love: the mime will mime a heart at you, and you will weep, not like a Cancer, but sideways, like a goldfish at a wedding. Compatibility: high with anyone silent for tips. Late tonight you'll still feel the walls around you in the kitchen. Step out of the box. Lucky number: 0, the walls there ever were. Lucky color: smeared greasepaint white.
DO
- Keep walking past mimes
- Take your half in quarters
- Step out of the box
DON'T
- Look for a seam
- Mime the heart back
- Ask the mime for directions out
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-20 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 27.3° Libra |
|---|---|
| Moon | 19.9° Aquarius |
| Mercury | 20.2° Scorpio |
| Venus | 2.8° Scorpio ℞ |
| Mars | 12.7° Leo |
| Jupiter | 22.8° Leo |
| Saturn | 10.1° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 5.1° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.3° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.7° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Venus square Pluto (0.2°, tense)
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.7°, easy)
- Moon square Mercury (0.3°, tense)
- Uranus trine Pluto (2.0°, flowing)
- Mercury square Jupiter (2.6°, tense)
- Mars trine Saturn (2.7°, flowing)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Moon opposite Jupiter (3.0°, at odds)
- Sun conjunct Venus (5.5°, fused)
- Sun square Pluto (5.8°, 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 Tuesday, October 20, 2026.