ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Libra season
- Waxing Gibbous in Pisces
- Moon into Pisces 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. Shadow work, attachment styles, your mother. Fifty-minute hour, five-minute read. Lucky numbers. A stranger. A windfall. All lies, syndicated.
THE DOSE
The whole fate. He counted. One sentence. Fits in a notification. One paragraph. The reading, compressed. The whole reading. Sit down.
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Aries
A nine-year-old will out-bowl you.
A nine-year-old beats you at bowling tonight, and Mars makes you pay for every rematch she wins.
With your ruler Mars and bloated Jupiter in your 5th house of games, expect a night at the bowling alley to turn into a feud with a nine-year-old who rolls with both hands and beats you badly. Mars trine Saturn gives you the stamina to keep buying rematches at the front counter. Put the bumpers up and leave them; your pride needs them more than she does.
DO
- Put the bumpers up
- Shake her tiny hand
- Return the rental shoes
DON'T
- Say best of five
- Blame the lane
- Accuse a fourth grader of sandbagging
With your hotheaded ruler Mars in Leo in your 5th house of games, children and fun you can't afford, and Jupiter parked beside it inflating everything, expect an easygoing night at the bowling alley to become a blood feud. Be wary of any lane with the bumpers up. A nine-year-old who rolls the ball with both hands, like she's returning a library book, may beat you, and with Jupiter involved, she won't beat you by a little.
Mars trine Saturn grants stamina, which in your hands is not a blessing but a billing issue. Expect to demand a rematch, then a best-of-five, and resist the urge to keep feeding cash to the front counter until the shoe-rental guy starts calling you champ in a voice you won't enjoy. This is not the day to say double or nothing to a fourth grader.
With Saturn and Neptune both retrograde in your 1st house, your self-image runs foggy and late: dreamy, delusional Neptune swears you were a natural, and slow-walking Saturn doesn't deliver the final score until late tonight. The kid does not need a rival. Put the bumpers up and leave them up; your pride needs them more than she does.
DO
- Put the bumpers up
- Shake her tiny hand
- Return the rental shoes
DON'T
- Say best of five
- Blame the lane
- Accuse a fourth grader of sandbagging
Printer will only need paper.
You'll wage war on a jammed office printer all afternoon, and IT will gently inform you it's out of paper.
Hall-monitor Saturn sits retrograde in your first house today, so when the office printer jams this morning you'll take it as a declaration of war. You'll slap it, yank every drawer and hold the power button like a hostage negotiator, until the IT guy opens one tray and says it's out of paper. Homework: refill a paper tray in front of a witness and say 'that's all it needed.'
DO
- Refill one paper tray
- Let IT finish his sentence
- Thank the printer publicly
DON'T
- Hold the power button
- Slap office equipment
- Pretend you knew about the paper
The material we're working with today is hall-monitor Saturn, retrograde in your first house, which clinically speaking is a speed bump installed directly in your personality. So when the office printer jams at work this morning, what comes up for you won't be inconvenience. It will be betrayal. You'll read that orange light blinking at you like a little asshole as a personal challenge, and the old pattern, where every obstacle is an opponent and every opponent must be destroyed, will be back in the room before you finish saying 'are you kidding me.'
Watch the defense go up. You'll yank open every drawer on the machine, slap its side like it owes you money, and hold the power button down long enough to qualify as a hostage situation. Somebody from accounting will walk up with one page to print, read the room, and quietly leave for the printer on another floor. You'll experience this as winning.
Later in the afternoon the guy from IT will stroll over, open one tray, and tell you, very gently, that it's out of paper. Note how fast you tell him you knew that. Homework: refill a paper tray today with a witness present, and say 'that's all it needed' out loud.
DO
- Refill one paper tray
- Let IT finish his sentence
- Thank the printer publicly
DON'T
- Hold the power button
- Slap office equipment
- Pretend you knew about the paper
A jogger will lap you.
A jogger passes you this morning, you secretly race him, and he laps you without ever noticing.
A stranger in a lime headband passes you on the park loop this morning, and you are now racing. He doesn't know. He never will. He laps you, says 'nice pace, buddy' with both earbuds in, and by lunch you've bought faster shoes, which are your same shoes in red. Leave the headband man alone tomorrow. Lucky color: silver, as in medal.
DO
- Let the headband man pass
- Accept silver like an adult
- Walk to your car slowly
DON'T
- Ask for shoes in angrier
- Shake your phone in a drawer
- Challenge the headband man's dog
Physical exertion is favored. A stranger in a lime headband passes you on the park loop this morning. You are now racing. He does not know this. He will never know this. He laps you anyway, says 'nice pace, buddy' with both earbuds in, and keeps going like you're a bench. Avoid hills. Avoid him.
An unexpected windfall arrives before lunch: a flash sale at the running store. You buy faster shoes. They are the shoes you already own, in red. Money matters come to a head at the register when you ask if they come in 'angrier.' Compatibility: high with Sagittarius, who has already left the store.
A Libra at work proposes a friendly step challenge. Nothing is friendly with you, you horn-first battering ram. By afternoon you've shaken your phone in a desk drawer for forty minutes and still lost to a woman in accounting who just walks to her car. Leave the headband man alone tomorrow. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: silver, as in medal.
DO
- Let the headband man pass
- Accept silver like an adult
- Walk to your car slowly
DON'T
- Ask for shoes in angrier
- Shake your phone in a drawer
- Challenge the headband man's dog
-
Taurus
You'll occupy the curb tonight.
The silver sedan returns for your curb, and you guard the spot from a lawn chair until dark.
With your ruler Venus retrograde in your 7th house of open enemies and squaring Pluto, the silver sedan that stole your curb last spring comes back, and Mars and Jupiter in your 4th turn a public street into ancestral land. Expect to be sitting in a folding lawn chair in that spot when the streetlights come on. Fold the chair and go inside.
DO
- Fold the lawn chair
- Let the sedan park
- Wave your friend into the spot
DON'T
- Bring out the cooler
- Call the street ancestral land
- Claim squatter's rights on asphalt
With your sweet-toothed, backpedaling ruler Venus retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house, the house of partners and open enemies, and squaring Pluto, expect an old adversary to resurface today. Not a person you dated. Worse. A silver sedan, the one that took the curb in front of your house back in spring, returns, and Venus square Pluto turns a public street into a matter of ancestral land.
Mars and Jupiter in your 4th house make the home front large and armed. Be wary of the urge to drag a folding lawn chair to the curb and sit in it to hold the space, and of Jupiter's suggestion that you bring a cooler, a blanket and a book, because this is no longer an errand, it's an occupation. Expect to still be out there when the streetlights come on.
The Moon in Pisces in your 11th house trines Venus, which means a friend wants to come over tonight and has nowhere to park, because you are sitting in the only spot. This is not the day to explain that the street is spiritually yours. Fold the chair, go inside and let the sedan have it; the curb belongs to the city, and the city has never heard of you.
DO
- Fold the lawn chair
- Let the sedan park
- Wave your friend into the spot
DON'T
- Bring out the cooler
- Call the street ancestral land
- Claim squatter's rights on asphalt
Carpet dents will guide you.
Somebody moves the couch eight inches today, and late tonight you'll secretly drag it back into its carpet dents.
Pushy Mars and overstuffed Jupiter crowd your house of home today, and sometime this morning somebody you live with moves the couch eight inches 'to open up the room.' You'll say 'looks great' like a hostage reading a statement, then late tonight, while everyone sleeps, drag it back and line each leg up with its carpet dent. Homework: move one throw pillow six inches and leave it until Friday.
DO
- Say 'looks great' convincingly
- Move one throw pillow
- Sleep through the night
DON'T
- Measure the new angle
- Lean toward the old spot
- Dock the couch by moonlight
Today's material is pushy Mars and overstuffed Jupiter crowding your fourth house, the house of home, which is the astrological version of somebody else's shoes in your entryway. Sometime this morning, a person you live with will move the couch eight inches to the left 'to open up the room.' What comes up for you won't be a feeling. It'll be a tremor. You'll stand in the doorway staring at four little carpet dents where your couch used to live, and you'll recognize them for what they are: a crime scene.
Here's the defense. You'll say 'looks great' in the flat voice of a hostage reading a prepared statement, because your ruler, two-faced Venus, is retrograde in your house of partners and has been coaching you to win conflicts by simply outlasting them. You'll spend dinner sitting at a slight angle toward where the couch should be, like a houseplant leaning toward a lamp that got moved.
Late tonight, after everyone's asleep, you'll get up and drag it back, lining each leg up with its dent like you're docking a cruise ship. Nobody will notice. That's the point, and that's the pathology. Homework: before bed, move one throw pillow six inches and leave it there until Friday.
DO
- Say 'looks great' convincingly
- Move one throw pillow
- Sleep through the night
DON'T
- Measure the new angle
- Lean toward the old spot
- Dock the couch by moonlight
Deli will discontinue your sandwich.
The deli discontinues your Wednesday sandwich, and by tonight eleven pounds of pastrami live in your fridge.
The deli discontinues your sandwich today, the one you've ordered every Wednesday since flip phones. A teenager in a visor offers a free replacement. It has arugula. You treat this as an act of war, buy eleven pounds of pastrami wholesale and buckle it into the passenger seat. Eat the arugula one tomorrow and say it's fine. Lucky number: 11, in pounds.
DO
- Eat the arugula one
- Say it's fine out loud
- Tip the visor kid anyway
DON'T
- Block the counter until close
- Buckle meat into the passenger seat
- Hold a vigil at the menu board
Grim tidings at the deli counter. Your sandwich, the one you've ordered every Wednesday since flip phones, has been discontinued. A teenager in a visor delivers the verdict. The deli's most load-bearing regular does not order. Does not move. A line forms behind you and slowly learns to live there. Romance is not in the air. Pastrami was.
An unexpected windfall: the deli offers its 'similar' replacement, free. It has arugula. You treat this as a goddamn act of war. Money matters come to a head when you buy every remaining scrap of pastrami wholesale, eleven pounds, and drive it home in the passenger seat with the seatbelt on.
Tonight the homemade version is wrong. The bread is wrong. The mustard is wrong. The kitchen, somehow, is wrong. The fridge, built for five pounds of anything, makes a noise you've never heard. A Virgo figures prominently, suggesting you 'try something new,' and is shown the door. Eat the arugula one tomorrow and say it's fine. Lucky number: 11, in pounds. Lucky color: deli-case beige.
DO
- Eat the arugula one
- Say it's fine out loud
- Tip the visor kid anyway
DON'T
- Block the counter until close
- Buckle meat into the passenger seat
- Hold a vigil at the menu board
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Gemini
Neighbor will reclaim the bear.
You tell the neighbor's bear story at work as your own, and the neighbor, who has photos, finds out.
With your ruler Mercury in your 6th house of the daily grind squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of neighbors, expect the neighbor's bear-at-the-campsite story to become yours in the break room, a little bigger each telling until, by lunch, you have punched it. By afternoon the neighbor, who has photos, hears about it. Give back the bear and admit you got it over a fence.
DO
- Credit the neighbor
- Shrink the bear back down
- Admit you got it secondhand
DON'T
- Say you sort of remember
- Retell it after lunch
- Demonstrate the punch in the break room
With your gossiping ruler Mercury in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of neighbors, expect a story to change hands at work today. Specifically: the neighbor's story, the one about the bear at the campsite, which you will tell in the break room in the first person. Mercury square Jupiter makes every retelling bigger, and by lunch the bear is standing up and you have punched it.
Mars and Jupiter in your 3rd house make the neighbors loud and well-connected today. Be wary of the six degrees between your office and your street; somebody from work follows somebody who follows the neighbor, and sometime this afternoon expect a text that just says: the bear? The neighbor was there. The neighbor has photos. You have a story you heard over a fence.
With erratic, reverse-gear Uranus retrograde in your own 1st house, your identity is running on borrowed parts, and today one of the owners wants a part back. This is not the day to say you sort of remember it that way. Give the neighbor back the bear and tell the break room the truth: you got it over a fence.
DO
- Credit the neighbor
- Shrink the bear back down
- Admit you got it secondhand
DON'T
- Say you sort of remember
- Retell it after lunch
- Demonstrate the punch in the break room
Hot-dog guy will hear everything.
A friend tries to tell you something serious, you change the subject three times, and she tells the hot-dog guy.
Uranus retrograde in your sign runs your channel-changer backward today. On a walk after work a friend asks, 'Can I tell you something kind of serious?' and you hear it like a cat hears a vacuum: three subject changes in one crosswalk, escaped octopus included. By the end of the block she tells the hot-dog cart guy instead, and he listens. Homework: buy two hot dogs from him. He did your job.
DO
- Let her finish one sentence
- Shelve the octopus story
- Buy two hot dogs
DON'T
- Say 'keeping it light'
- Point out lookalike drummers
- Ask the hot-dog guy for details
Today's material is Uranus retrograde in your own sign, which means the part of you that changes channels is now changing them backward, too. On a walk after work, a friend will slow down and say, 'Can I tell you something kind of serious?' Notice what happens in your body. Something in you will hear the word 'serious' the way a cat hears a vacuum.
The defense is classic for you: velocity. Before she reaches her second sentence you'll have asked if she saw the octopus that escaped from an aquarium, pointed out that a passing guy looks exactly like the drummer from some band, and floated a theory about why this block smells like pretzels. Three subject changes in one crosswalk. You'll call it 'keeping things light.' Clinically, it's a smoke machine.
By the end of the block she'll stop trying, turn to the guy at the hot-dog cart, and tell him instead, and he'll actually listen, nodding, tongs in hand. You'll get her news secondhand, from him, while he hands you a pretzel. Homework: buy two hot dogs from that man. He did your job today.
DO
- Let her finish one sentence
- Shelve the octopus story
- Buy two hot dogs
DON'T
- Say 'keeping it light'
- Point out lookalike drummers
- Ask the hot-dog guy for details
Your alt will block you.
Your second account picks a fight with your first, wins, blocks you, and your friends side with the alt.
A stranger online agrees with everything you post this morning. It's your second account. By lunch the two of you are fighting about whether cereal is soup, by afternoon your alt blocks you, and your friends side with the alt, the better-adjusted one. Pick one face and leave it on all day. Lucky number: 2, obviously.
DO
- Log out of one of you
- Concede that cereal isn't soup
- Pick one face by lunch
DON'T
- Sign anything twice
- Screenshot yourself to yourself
- Beg the alt to unblock you
A stranger online agrees with everything you post this morning. It's your second account. By lunch the two of you are fighting about whether cereal is soup, and by afternoon your alt blocks you. Friends take sides. Most of them pick the alt. It's the better-adjusted one. An apology is in the air. Neither of you will send it.
Career matters heat up when somebody from work asks which of your two LinkedIn headshots is current. You say both. Avoid signing contracts today; you'll sign them twice, in two different handwritings, and both of you will deny it. A Gemini figures prominently. It's the other one.
Romance is in the air, but it's landing in two inboxes, and you're answering as two people with opposite opinions about the same pair of jeans. Compatibility: high with yourself, until lunch. Pick one face and leave it on all day, you two-tab browser of a person. Lucky number: 2, obviously. Lucky color: whichever one you said you hated yesterday.
DO
- Log out of one of you
- Concede that cereal isn't soup
- Pick one face by lunch
DON'T
- Sign anything twice
- Screenshot yourself to yourself
- Beg the alt to unblock you
-
Cancer
You'll U-turn at exit four.
You set off on a day trip, miss your own kitchen by exit four, and U-turn home.
With your ruler the Moon in Pisces in your 9th house of travel, expect to agree to a day trip, and with the Moon squaring erratic Uranus, expect a U-turn by exit four because you miss your own kitchen. Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd have you buying a gas-station magnet of the town you live in. Get to the lake and cry from there.
DO
- Make it to the lake
- Sit by the water an hour
- Cry with a view
DON'T
- Buy your own town's magnet
- Say it didn't feel right
- Call the house to check on it
With your soggy ruler, the Moon, now in Pisces in your 9th house of travel and big horizons, the sky wants you to go somewhere. Expect to agree to a day trip, an orchard, a lake, a town with one good antique store, and be wary of how quickly the highway turns into a eulogy. The Moon squares erratic Uranus today, the aspect of the sudden U-turn: by exit four you will be missing your own kitchen like it shipped off to war.
Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd house make spending fast and sentimental. Resist the urge, at the gas station where you pull over to recover, to buy a fridge magnet of the town you live in and a keychain shaped like your own state. Jupiter will call these souvenirs. They are a cry for help with a magnet on the back.
The Moon trines Venus in your 5th house of fun, so joy was on the itinerary, and you will drive it home unopened. This is not the day to say the trip didn't feel right. Get to the lake, sit by the water for one full hour and cry about your kitchen from there, where at least the view is better.
DO
- Make it to the lake
- Sit by the water an hour
- Cry with a view
DON'T
- Buy your own town's magnet
- Say it didn't feel right
- Call the house to check on it
Intern's mother will call you.
You pack the new intern a lunch with a 'proud of you' note, and his actual mother calls to compete.
The weepy Moon, your ruler, is seventy-eight percent full today, about how full you always run. The new intern skips breakfast, and by noon he has your spare lunch: triangle sandwich, cut-up apple, sticky note reading 'proud of you!!' Later this afternoon his actual mother calls your desk to say thank you, in a tone that is not entirely thank you. Homework: eat your own second lunch. Alone. Without a note.
DO
- Eat your own lunch
- Let the intern buy a sandwich
- Take the mother's call
DON'T
- Cut sandwiches into triangles
- Sign notes 'proud of you'
- Out-mother his actual mother
Your ruler, the swollen, weepy Moon, is waxing gibbous in Pisces today, seventy-eight percent full, which is roughly how full your emotional diaper bag runs at all times. At work this morning you'll overhear the new intern say he skipped breakfast, and something ancient in you will lift its head. Clinically, we call this the caretaking reflex. You call it 'packing a second lunch just in case,' which you have done every single day for years, waiting for exactly this emergency.
By noon he'll have your spare lunch: a sandwich cut into triangles, a cut-up apple, and a sticky note that says 'proud of you!!' for reasons neither of you can name. Watch how good it feels. That warmth is the old pattern, being needed so nobody can leave, wearing a cardigan.
Then, later in the afternoon, your desk phone will ring, and it will be his actual mother, calling to say thank you in a tone that is not entirely thank you. Two caretakers, one intern, a territorial dispute conducted in very polite voices. Homework: eat your own second lunch today. Alone. Without a note.
DO
- Eat your own lunch
- Let the intern buy a sandwich
- Take the mother's call
DON'T
- Cut sandwiches into triangles
- Sign notes 'proud of you'
- Out-mother his actual mother
You'll adopt an abandoned cart.
You rescue an abandoned shopping cart from the Target lot, and by tonight loss prevention is negotiating visitation.
A shopping cart sits abandoned at the far end of the Target lot this afternoon, one wheel wobbling. By dusk it's under a throw blanket in your living room with the hall light on, and a loss-prevention guy is on the phone asking for it back while you negotiate weekend visitation. Return the cart to the corral before dark. Lucky color: Target red.
DO
- Return the cart by dark
- Say goodbye at the corral
- Accept every-other-weekend visitation
DON'T
- Name the cart
- Tuck it in
- Introduce it to your mother
A lonely object enters your life this afternoon. A shopping cart sits abandoned at the far end of the Target lot, one wheel wobbling, nobody coming back for it. You will not leave it there. By dusk it's in your living room under a throw blanket, and you've left the hall light on for it. Romance is in the air. It smells like a parking lot.
Money matters come to a head when a loss-prevention guy from Target calls asking for his cart. You negotiate visitation. An unexpected windfall: he waives the eighty-dollar fee because you're crying into the phone and he can't take it. Avoid signing contracts. He's drafting one anyway.
A Capricorn figures prominently in the group chat, typing 'it's a cart' four times in a row. Compatibility: low with Capricorn, sky-high with anything on wheels. Return the cart to the corral before dark. Kiss the handle if you have to, you soft-shelled sentimental sap. Lucky number: 1, the wobbly wheel. Lucky color: Target red.
DO
- Return the cart by dark
- Say goodbye at the corral
- Accept every-other-weekend visitation
DON'T
- Name the cart
- Tuck it in
- Introduce it to your mother
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Leo
Neighbor's puppy will steal focus.
A neighbor's puppy steals your block, and your selfie with it gets one comment about you: who's holding him?
With your ruler the Sun in your 3rd house of neighbors and conjunct Venus, the block's affection flows freely today, straight to a neighbor's new puppy. Mars and Jupiter in your 1st make you competitive with a nine-pound animal; expect to post a photo holding it and get ten comments about its ears and one asking who's holding it. Pet the puppy and stop posting.
DO
- Pet the puppy
- Learn the puppy's name
- Stop posting by dinner
DON'T
- Call puppies overrated at home
- Post the photo holding it
- Ask the block for a recount
With your spotlight-hogging ruler, the Sun, in Libra in your 3rd house of neighbors and conjunct Venus, expect the street's affection to flow freely today, and be wary of where it flows. A puppy has moved in somewhere on your block, round, floppy, feet too big for it, and every head on the sidewalk will turn toward it, including the heads that, by your count, are contractually yours.
Mars and Jupiter both sit in your 1st house, making you large, loud and, today, competitive with an animal that weighs nine pounds. Mercury in your 4th squares Jupiter, so expect to deliver a speech at home about how puppies are overrated if you really think about it, to a household that did not ask and does not agree.
Mars trine Saturn grants you a disciplined strategy, and the strategy is proximity: expect to ask for a photo holding the puppy, post it by late afternoon and collect eleven comments, ten about its ears and one asking who's holding it. This is not the day to compete with something that pees when excited. Pet the puppy and stop posting; you are not the puppy, and the block has voted.
DO
- Pet the puppy
- Learn the puppy's name
- Stop posting by dinner
DON'T
- Call puppies overrated at home
- Post the photo holding it
- Ask the block for a recount
Front desk won't recognize you.
Your building's new front-desk person makes you sign in as a visitor, and you spend the day trying to be remembered.
Loudmouth Mars and bloated Jupiter both sit in your sign today, inflating you like an untethered parade balloon. This morning the new person at your building's front desk doesn't recognize you and slides over the visitor log, and you'll spend the day walking past the desk waiting to be known. You won't be. Homework: keep the VISITOR sticker on until bedtime, and if anybody asks, say you're just visiting.
DO
- Sign the visitor log
- Wear the sticker all day
- Admit you're just visiting
DON'T
- Mention your floor twice
- Laugh near the elevator
- Autograph the visitor log
The material we're working with: loudmouth Mars and bloated Jupiter are both sitting in your sign, inflating your sense of self like a parade balloon somebody forgot to tether. So this morning, when the new person at your building's front desk doesn't recognize you and slides over the visitor log, what comes up for you won't be mild irritation. It'll be an identity crisis with a clipboard.
The defense arrives fast. You'll sign in with a signature roughly the size of a Broadway marquee, mention your floor twice, and laugh too loud at nothing within earshot of the elevator. All day you'll find reasons to walk past that desk, smiling, waiting for the flicker of recognition. It won't come. The new person is busy, and to them you're a sticker that says VISITOR, pal.
Late in the day you'll notice you never took the sticker off, and that some small part of you, the part that still wanted a bigger role in the school play, has been wearing it like a wound. Homework: keep the VISITOR sticker on until bedtime, and if anybody asks, tell them yes, you're just visiting.
DO
- Sign the visitor log
- Wear the sticker all day
- Admit you're just visiting
DON'T
- Mention your floor twice
- Laugh near the elevator
- Autograph the visitor log
Local news will crop you.
A news crew films your block's pothole, you stand in it wearing a blazer, and tonight's broadcast crops you out.
A local news van parks on your block this afternoon to cover a pothole. You change into the blazer. The camera tilts toward the pothole, so you step into the pothole. Tonight's broadcast runs it for ninety seconds, crops you out of every frame, and the block gives the pothole a nickname. Let the pothole have its night. Lucky color: asphalt.
DO
- Let the pothole have its night
- Change out of the blazer
- Wave from the sidewalk once
DON'T
- Stand in the pothole
- Pay a kid to film you
- Demand equal billing with the pothole
Fame is in the air. A local news van parks on your block this afternoon to cover a pothole. You'll be in the background. You'll go back inside, change into the blazer, and be in the background again. The camera tilts toward the pothole. You step into the pothole.
Money matters come to a head when you pay a kid twenty bucks to keep filming you on his phone instead. He goes live to nine viewers. Eight leave. The ninth is a bot selling sunglasses, which you count as a sponsorship. Compatibility: high with anyone holding a ring light.
Tonight the broadcast runs the pothole for ninety glorious seconds. You are cropped out of every frame. A neighbor says the pothole looked great. By bedtime the block has given it a nickname, and it isn't yours. Turn off the TV and let the pothole have its night, you blazer-wearing, spotlight-starved sunbeam. Lucky number: 9, your peak audience. Lucky color: asphalt.
DO
- Let the pothole have its night
- Change out of the blazer
- Wave from the sidewalk once
DON'T
- Stand in the pothole
- Pay a kid to film you
- Demand equal billing with the pothole
-
Virgo
Missing piece will convict you.
You interrogate everyone by text over a missing puzzle piece, then find it in your own sweater cuff.
With your ruler Mercury in your 3rd house of texting squaring Jupiter in your 12th house of hidden things, expect a thousand-piece puzzle to come up one short this evening, and expect interrogations by text before you check under the couch. Late tonight the piece drops out of your own sweater cuff. Retract the texts and apologize in complete sentences.
DO
- Check under the couch
- Shake out your sleeves
- Retract every accusatory text
DON'T
- Accuse anyone of pocketing edges
- Interrogate by group chat
- Dust the box for prints
With your nitpicking ruler Mercury in Scorpio in your 3rd house of texting, squaring Jupiter in your 12th house of hidden things, expect a thousand-piece puzzle to come up one piece short this evening, and expect to treat it like a felony. Jupiter in the 12th means something is hidden, and Mercury in Scorpio means the interrogations begin by text before you check under the couch.
The Moon in Pisces in your 7th house makes everyone across the table soft, dreamy and, to your trained eye, guilty. Be wary of telling anyone they pocket edge pieces; they will cry, and the Moon will take their side. This is not the day to dust the box for prints.
Mars in your 12th house hides the culprit in plain sight, and late tonight, when you finally take off your sweater, the missing piece will drop out of the cuff: a corner, all sky, riding along since lunch. Saturn retrograde in your 8th house wants a confession, so give one. Retract the texts, finish the sky and apologize to the group chat in complete sentences with correct punctuation.
DO
- Check under the couch
- Shake out your sleeves
- Retract every accusatory text
DON'T
- Accuse anyone of pocketing edges
- Interrogate by group chat
- Dust the box for prints
You'll rehearse the spontaneous evening.
A friend wants a spontaneous night, you secretly scout restaurants at lunch, and you blurt out the bathroom code.
Mars and Jupiter sit in your house of secrets today, right where you hide how much you care. A friend texts 'let's be spontaneous tonight,' so on your lunch break you secretly scout three restaurants. Tonight she picks one 'at random,' and you blurt the bathroom code before the hostess can. Homework: order one thing you haven't researched, and eat it without saying 'interesting.'
DO
- Order something unresearched
- Let her pick the table
- Delete the 'nothing' note
DON'T
- Read reviews from 2017
- Recite the bathroom code
- Say 'interesting' with your face
Today's material is Mars and Jupiter in your twelfth house, the house of secrets, which is where you keep everything you'd rather not be seen doing, like caring this much. Early this morning a friend will text, 'Let's just be spontaneous tonight! No plan!' Notice the physical response. It will feel like somebody opened a window on an airplane.
The defense is preparation disguised as nothing. On your lunch break you'll quietly scout three restaurants near her place, check each menu for anything that could go wrong, read reviews from 2017, and build a ranked shortlist in a notes app you've titled 'nothing.' You'll get back to work feeling, for the first time all day, calm. That calm is the symptom.
Tonight she'll point at a door 'totally at random,' and it'll be your number two. You'll know where to sit, what to avoid, and the bathroom code, and you'll blurt the code before the hostess can. She'll look at you for a long moment. Homework: order one thing you haven't researched, and eat it without saying 'interesting.'
DO
- Order something unresearched
- Let her pick the table
- Delete the 'nothing' note
DON'T
- Read reviews from 2017
- Recite the bathroom code
- Say 'interesting' with your face
Fitted sheet will defeat you.
A fitted sheet defeats you after work, and you watch a Sagittarius shove it in the closet in a ball.
A fitted sheet challenges you after work. You accept. Four tutorials and eleven folds later, all you've won is a sock from 2019 and four dollars that fell out of it. Then a Sagittarius wanders in, balls the sheet up and shoves it in the closet while you watch. Compatibility: catastrophic. Let it be a ball. Lucky color: the faded blue of a sheet that won.
DO
- Let the sheet stay a ball
- Keep the four dollars
- Close the closet gently
DON'T
- Watch a fifth tutorial
- Reply with a numbered list
- Refold it while the Sagittarius sleeps
Domestic matters come to a head after work. A fitted sheet challenges you. You accept. Four tutorials, eleven folds, one corner tucked into another corner tucked into a third corner that should not exist. The sheet wins. The sheet always wins. Your hands will cramp in the shape of a hospital corner. Avoid linen closets.
An unexpected windfall falls out of the sheet: the missing pillowcase, a sock from 2019 and four dollars. You'll wash the four dollars. A stranger in the YouTube comments will tell you to 'just roll it up.' You will never forgive this stranger, and you'll reply with a numbered list.
Romance is in the air. A Sagittarius wanders in, balls the sheet up and shoves it in the closet while you watch, mouth open, hands still holding a corner that isn't there. Compatibility: catastrophic. Let it be a ball, you corner-obsessed little hall monitor. Lucky number: 4, the corners, none of them matching. Lucky color: the faded blue of a sheet that won.
DO
- Let the sheet stay a ball
- Keep the four dollars
- Close the closet gently
DON'T
- Watch a fifth tutorial
- Reply with a numbered list
- Refold it while the Sagittarius sleeps
-
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON
You'll circle the returns line.
You reach the front of the returns line four times with one oat blanket and leave still holding it.
With your ruler Venus retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, expect to return an oat-colored throw blanket, un-return it and stand there, reaching the front of the customer service line more than once. Saturn retrograde in your 7th puts a clerk in a red vest across from you who has seen you four times. Keep the oat and leave the line.
DO
- Keep the oat blanket
- Leave the returns line
- Mute the group chat
DON'T
- Text the blanket photo
- Rejoin the line again
- Ask the clerk her favorite neutral
With your dithering ruler Venus retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of money and possessions, expect to return something today, then un-return it, then stand there. The item is a throw blanket in a color the tag calls oat. Venus retrograde favors going back but does not specify how many times, so expect to reach the front of the customer service line, hold up the blanket and step aside to think, more than once.
Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house make friends loud and generous with opinions. Be wary of texting the group chat a photo of the blanket; expect six replies, three votes, two new colors to consider and one friend who asks what blanket, which is the only correct answer.
Saturn retrograde in your 7th house seats a humorless authority across from you, and today it wears a red vest and has seen you four times. With the Sun in your own sign conjunct Venus, you will want the clerk to like you more than you want the refund. This is not the day to ask the clerk which one she'd pick. Keep the oat and leave the line; other people have shit to return.
DO
- Keep the oat blanket
- Leave the returns line
- Mute the group chat
DON'T
- Text the blanket photo
- Rejoin the line again
- Ask the clerk her favorite neutral
You'll eat both lunches politely.
Lunch arrives wrong, you eat it smiling, then the right order arrives and you eat and pay for that too.
It's your season, and you'd still rather be liked than fed. At lunch the server brings the wrong order, olives everywhere, and you eat it smiling. Then your real order arrives, and sending that back would be rude too, so you eat it, and pay for both so the kitchen 'doesn't get in trouble.' Homework: send back one thing today, even a fork, and survive it.
DO
- Send back one fork
- Admit you hate olives
- Pay for one meal
DON'T
- Reassure the server
- Compliment the olives
- Apologize to the olives
It's your season, the birthday-cake Sun is sitting right in your sign, and the material today is the familiar one: you would rather be liked than fed. At lunch near work, the server will bring you the wrong order, a plate of something with olives, which you hate, which you'll look at the way a hostage looks at a ransom note. What comes up for you is the fawn response: the sudden, overwhelming need to make sure the server is okay.
So you'll eat it. All of it, olives included, with the face of a person enjoying a symphony. You'll tell the server it's delicious. Then the server will notice the mistake, apologize, and bring your actual order, and here's the pattern in its purest form: sending that one back would be rude too. So you'll eat that one as well.
Venus, your backpedaling ruler, is retrograde in your house of money, which is why at the register you'll insist on paying for both meals so the kitchen 'doesn't get in trouble.' Nobody was getting in trouble. Homework: before the day is over, send back one thing, a fork, a napkin, a glass of water that's slightly too cold, and survive it.
DO
- Send back one fork
- Admit you hate olives
- Pay for one meal
DON'T
- Reassure the server
- Compliment the olives
- Apologize to the olives
Sample spoons will run out.
You sample twelve gelato flavors this afternoon, the shop runs out of spoons, and you order vanilla.
Happy Libra season; the gelato clerk does not care. This afternoon you taste twelve flavors on twelve tiny spoons while the line wraps past the nail salon and someone cute in a denim jacket orders in four seconds. The shop runs out of spoons. You get vanilla. Order the first flavor you tried. Lucky color: pistachio, which you almost had.
DO
- Order the first flavor
- Let the line go ahead
- Tip for the spoons
DON'T
- Ask what the clerk would get
- Request a thirteenth spoon
- Ask the line to vote
Happy Libra season. The gelato clerk does not care. This afternoon you taste twelve flavors on twelve tiny spoons while a line forms out the door and down past the nail salon. Pistachio is close. Stracciatella is close. Mint chip feels like a betrayal of pistachio. Everything is close.
Romance is in the air, specifically behind you: someone cute in a denim jacket orders in four seconds and leaves with a cone. Compatibility: impossible. A stranger will say 'just pick one,' as if that's a thing people do. A Taurus figures prominently, ordering what he always orders, loudly, to make a point.
Money matters come to a head when the shop runs clean out of spoons and the clerk taps the 'two samples per customer' sign like a gavel. You get vanilla. You tip for the spoons. Order the first flavor you tried, you gorgeous human seesaw. Lucky number: 12, in spoons. Lucky color: pistachio, which you almost had.
DO
- Order the first flavor
- Let the line go ahead
- Tip for the spoons
DON'T
- Ask what the clerk would get
- Request a thirteenth spoon
- Ask the line to vote
-
Scorpio
Coworker will confess to everything.
You text a coworker 'got a minute later?' about a Tupperware lid, and by lunch they've confessed to everything.
With Mercury in your 1st house making every sentence read like a subpoena, and Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house of career, expect a 'got a minute later?' sent to a coworker over a Tupperware lid to get you a full confession by lunch: the yogurts, the parking badge, the shoes. Venus retrograde tempts you to nod like you knew. Put what it's about in the first message.
DO
- Mention the lid upfront
- Accept the yogurt apology
- Call the relative back
DON'T
- Type got a minute later
- Nod like you knew
- Open a file on the shoes
With sharp-tongued Mercury in Scorpio in your 1st house, every sentence you type reads like a subpoena, and with Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house of career, you'll type one at work. Be wary of sending a coworker 'got a minute later?' when all you want is your Tupperware lid back. Expect the silence between that message and later to break them, and expect a confession by lunch: the yogurts, the parking badge, the opinions about your shoes.
Venus retrograde in your sign squares your brooding ruler Pluto in your 4th house of home and family, and the family invented your move. Expect a relative to text 'call me when you can' and nothing else sometime this afternoon, and expect to spend hours rehearsing your defense. It is about a casserole recipe. You will understand exactly what you did to that coworker, and do it again tomorrow.
With Venus backing through your 1st house, the image you'd most like to keep is the one where you knew everything all along. You knew nothing. You wanted a goddamn lid. This is not the day to nod slowly and file the confession for later use. Put what it's about in the first message, every message, and give that coworker the afternoon off from you.
DO
- Mention the lid upfront
- Accept the yogurt apology
- Call the relative back
DON'T
- Type got a minute later
- Nod like you knew
- Open a file on the shoes
You'll like their 2017 photo.
An old flame likes your 2019 photo, and tonight your thumb deep-likes their 2017 beach picture.
Ex-whisperer Venus walks backward through your sign today, holding up old photos. This afternoon an old flame likes your picture from 2019, and you spend the work day running it like an intelligence briefing. Then late tonight, deep in a purely investigative scroll, your thumb slips onto their beach photo from 2017. Homework: leave the like up. Unliking it now is a confession.
DO
- Leave the like up
- Keep screenshots to yourself
- Put the phone face down
DON'T
- Analyze the lighting
- Caption anything 'thoughts?'
- Scroll past 2018
The material we're working with is ex-whisperer Venus, retrograde in your own sign, which is the planet of love walking backward through your front door holding up old photos. Sometime this afternoon, an old flame will like a picture of yours from 2019. One heart. No comment. What comes up for you won't be nostalgia. It'll be an intelligence briefing.
The defense is surveillance. You'll spend the rest of the work day analyzing that one tap: the timing, the angle of the photo, whether the lighting suggests regret. You'll screenshot it for three friends with the caption 'thoughts?' and then argue with all three thoughts. Note that you'll call this 'not caring.' Clinically, that's a hell of a lot of not caring.
Late tonight, deep into a careful, purely investigative scroll through their photos, your thumb will slip, and you'll like a picture of them on a beach in 2017. A deep like. Visible. Permanent in every way that matters. Homework: leave it up. Unliking it now is a confession, and you, of all people, know that.
DO
- Leave the like up
- Keep screenshots to yourself
- Put the phone face down
DON'T
- Analyze the lighting
- Caption anything 'thoughts?'
- Scroll past 2018
You'll play the corpse tonight.
You arrive at tonight's murder mystery dinner with a dossier on every guest and get cast as the corpse.
You arrive at tonight's murder mystery dinner with a color-coded dossier on every guest and get cast as the victim. You die before the soup, solve the case from the carpet in four minutes, and spend the evening unable to say so while a Leo in a feathered hat delivers lines over your face. Stay dead. Lucky color: chalk-outline white.
DO
- Die before the soup
- Hold still under the hat
- Solve it silently
DON'T
- Bring the dossier
- Rise to correct the script
- Dust the hostess for prints
Social plans turn deadly tonight. A friend hosts a murder mystery dinner, and you arrive with a dossier on every guest, color-coded, exes' middle initials included. The hostess hands you your card. You're the victim. You die before the soup. Avoid soup.
Romance is in the air, specifically directly above your face, where a Leo in a feathered hat keeps leaning over you to deliver lines. You cannot react. You are dead. You solve the case from the carpet in four minutes. You cannot say. Somebody's plus-one steps on your hand. Compatibility: high with the rug.
A secret comes to light at dessert, when the hostess names the killer and gets it wrong per her own printed script. You feel yourself starting to rise. An unexpected windfall: the party favor is a magnifying glass, and you'll use it on the guest list in the car. Stay dead, you brooding hall-closet Sherlock. Lucky number: 0, your lines. Lucky color: chalk-outline white.
DO
- Die before the soup
- Hold still under the hat
- Solve it silently
DON'T
- Bring the dossier
- Rise to correct the script
- Dust the hostess for prints
-
Sagittarius
Waiter will reply in Portuguese.
You order in app-taught Portuguese tonight, the waiter answers fluently, and you nod your way into an octopus.
With your ruler Jupiter in your 9th house of foreign lands, and Mercury squaring it, expect nine days on a language app to feel like fluency at the Portuguese place tonight. Expect the waiter to answer warmly, at length, and expect to nod; Saturn retrograde in your 5th makes you eat the octopus that arrives, out of pride. Point at the menu like everybody else.
DO
- Point at the menu
- Eat the octopus anyway
- Thank the waiter in English
DON'T
- Say sim blindly
- Mention your app streak
- Claim you basically live in Lisbon
With your globe-trotting, overpromising ruler Jupiter in Leo in your 9th house of foreign lands and big beliefs, with Mars beside it, expect to believe, at the Portuguese place with friends tonight, that nine days on a language app have made you fluent. Mercury squares Jupiter, which is the aspect of a promise your mouth can't keep. Be wary of ordering out loud.
Mercury and retrograde Venus sit in your 12th house of secrets, and the secret is that you won't understand a word the waiter says back. Expect him to answer warmly, quickly and at length in the language you claimed, and expect to nod with total confidence. This is not the day to say sim to a question you didn't catch. Something is leaving that kitchen for you, and it has tentacles.
Saturn retrograde in your 5th house of fun demands accountability, so expect to eat the entire octopus out of pride, and the Moon in Pisces in your 4th house sends you home full of feeling and tentacle. Resist telling anyone at home you basically live in Lisbon now. Point at the menu like everybody else, and save your Portuguese for the octopus.
DO
- Point at the menu
- Eat the octopus anyway
- Thank the waiter in English
DON'T
- Say sim blindly
- Mention your app streak
- Claim you basically live in Lisbon
You'll return the spare key.
A friend gives you her spare key this afternoon, and tonight you slide it back under her door, no note.
The Moon lands in your house of home today, a place you mostly keep a duffel bag. This afternoon a friend hands you her spare key 'for emergencies,' and it fits like an ankle monitor. You'll quarantine it from your real keys, check how far the Amtrak goes, and late tonight slide it back under her door with no note. Homework: knock, ask for it back, and hold eye contact.
DO
- Keep the key overnight
- Ask for it back
- Hold eye contact
DON'T
- Check Amtrak routes
- Quarantine it from your keys
- Leave a forwarding address
The material today is the Moon moving through your fourth house, the house of home, which for you is less a house than a place you keep a duffel bag. This afternoon a friend will hand you a spare key to her apartment, 'for emergencies,' and smile. Observe what comes up for you. It will feel less like trust and more like being fitted for an ankle monitor.
The defense will be logistical. You'll put the key on your ring, take it off, move it to a separate pocket so it can't touch your real keys, and spend part of the evening checking how far the Amtrak goes. A key implies you'll be around. You've never once been around. You've been around the way weather is around.
Late tonight you'll slide it back under her door in an envelope with no note, which you'll tell yourself is respectful and which she'll experience as a ransom situation in reverse. Homework: knock on that door, ask for the key back, and hold eye contact the whole time she hands it over.
DO
- Keep the key overnight
- Ask for it back
- Hold eye contact
DON'T
- Check Amtrak routes
- Quarantine it from your keys
- Leave a forwarding address
You'll ghost your own party.
You slip out of your own party tonight, nobody notices for an hour, and everyone agrees it improved.
You throw a party tonight and slip out the back before the chips run low. Nobody notices for an hour. The party improves. By midnight somebody's plus-one has rearranged your living room, the neighbors think he owns the place, and you're across town telling a bartender about the great party you're missing. Go home before they change the locks. Lucky color: whatever your couch is now.
DO
- Go home eventually
- Accept the eight-dollar Venmo
- Thank the plus-one for the furniture
DON'T
- Say goodbye to anyone
- Give the bartender your address
- Text the party asking how it's going
Travel is favored, and the trip is twenty feet, out your own back door. You throw a party tonight, and somewhere between the second bag of chips and the doorbell's ninth ring you slip out. Nobody notices for an hour. The party improves. A guest you've never met takes over the music.
An unexpected windfall: somebody Venmos you eight dollars for chips at your own party, memo 'thanks for having us, wherever you are.' Money matters come to a head when you spend it at a bar across town, telling a bartender all about the great party you're missing. The bartender will nod. It's his job.
By midnight somebody's plus-one has rearranged your living room, and the furniture looks better. That's the hell of it. The neighbors file a noise complaint naming the plus-one as the homeowner. A Gemini figures prominently, texting 'where r u' from your couch. Go home before they change the locks, you footloose, half-gone tumbleweed. Lucky number: 8, in chip dollars. Lucky color: whatever your couch is now.
DO
- Go home eventually
- Accept the eight-dollar Venmo
- Thank the plus-one for the furniture
DON'T
- Say goodbye to anyone
- Give the bartender your address
- Text the party asking how it's going
-
Capricorn
Friend will pay in pennies.
You request forty-three cents from a friend for calamari, and tonight it lands on your welcome mat in pennies.
With Mercury and retrograde Venus in your 11th house of friends, expect to dig through the group dinner receipts and request forty-three cents for the calamari. Your ruler Saturn, retrograde in your 4th house of home, sends it back to your doorstep late tonight as a sandwich bag of pennies with a note. Count them once, then let the calamari go.
DO
- Delete the calamari memo
- Put the pennies in a jar
- Read the note once
DON'T
- Follow up within the hour
- Send the friend a receipt
- Charge interest on the pennies
With Mercury in Scorpio and retrograde Venus both in your 11th house of friends, expect old accounts with your people to come up for review, and expect to be the one reviewing. Be wary of opening the payment app after the group dinner. Venus retrograde sends you back through the receipts, and Mercury in Scorpio finds the forty-three cents a friend still owes on the shared appetizer.
Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of shared money turn small sums into large principles. Expect to send the request, memo: calamari (your portion), and resist the urge to follow up when it sits unpaid for an hour. Jupiter makes forty-three cents feel like a pension, and you its only trustee.
Your stern, penny-counting ruler Saturn is retrograde in your 4th house of home, and something is returning to your doorstep: late tonight, expect a sandwich bag of forty-three pennies on the welcome mat, with a note. Mars trine Saturn gives you the focus to count them twice. This is not the day to send a receipt. Put the pennies in a jar, delete the memo and let the calamari go.
DO
- Delete the calamari memo
- Put the pennies in a jar
- Read the note once
DON'T
- Follow up within the hour
- Send the friend a receipt
- Charge interest on the pennies
HR will confiscate your Wednesday.
HR forces you to take today off, and by afternoon you're answering email from your car in the office lot.
Your ruler, workaholic Saturn, walks backward into your house of home today, and HR forces you to burn one of thirty-one vacation days. By late morning you've alphabetized the spices and drafted a performance review for the dishwasher; by afternoon you're in your car in the office lot, engine off, answering email. Homework: drive home and watch one whole episode of anything without checking the time.
DO
- Take the whole day
- Lie on the couch
- Watch one full episode
DON'T
- Review the dishwasher
- Alphabetize the spices
- Wave at security like staff
The material is your ruler, workaholic Saturn, retrograde in your house of home, which means the planet of work is walking backward into your living room. Early this morning HR will inform you that you have thirty-one unused vacation days and must take one, effective today. What comes up for you won't be relief. It'll be the specific panic of a sled dog unclipped from the sled.
The defense is productivity in a disguise. By late morning you'll have alphabetized the spice rack, reorganized the pantry by expiration date, and drafted a performance review for your dishwasher. When your sibling calls this afternoon and asks what you're doing with your day off, you'll say 'relaxing' in the voice of a person reading the word off a cue card.
By late afternoon you'll be sitting in your car in the office parking lot, engine off, answering email on your phone, close enough to feel the building's warmth. Security will wave. You'll wave back like a coworker. Homework: drive home, lie on the couch, and watch one entire episode of anything without checking the time once.
DO
- Take the whole day
- Lie on the couch
- Watch one full episode
DON'T
- Review the dishwasher
- Alphabetize the spices
- Wave at security like staff
Toddler's pumpkin will beat yours.
You carve a year-over-year growth chart into the office pumpkin, and a toddler's one-hole pumpkin beats it.
The office pumpkin-carving contest is this afternoon, and you treat it as a quarterly review: bar chart, year-over-year growth, a footnote in eight-point font. A sales rep's toddler wins with one hole. You request the judging criteria in writing. The prize was a fifteen-dollar Applebee's gift card. Put the pumpkin on your porch and let the squirrels audit it. Lucky color: participation-ribbon orange.
DO
- Congratulate the toddler
- Accept the ficus's ruling
- Let the squirrels audit it
DON'T
- Carve a footnote
- Request criteria in writing
- File an appeal against a toddler
Workplace festivities loom. The office pumpkin-carving contest is this afternoon, and you treat it as a quarterly review. Your pumpkin features a bar chart, year-over-year growth and a footnote carved in eight-point font. The judges are three interns and a ficus. A sales rep's toddler wins. The toddler's pumpkin has one hole.
Money matters come to a head when you request the judging criteria in writing. Avoid signing contracts; sign appeals. A stranger will tell you it's 'just for fun,' a phrase you have no folder for. An unexpected windfall: the grand prize was a fifteen-dollar Applebee's gift card, which you'd have expensed anyway.
Before quitting time the office newsletter calls the toddler a rising star. Tonight a Pisces friend looks at your pumpkin and says it 'has a lot going on.' Compatibility: under review. Put the pumpkin on your porch and let the squirrels audit it, you calendar-blocked little gargoyle. Lucky number: 1, the hole. Lucky color: participation-ribbon orange.
DO
- Congratulate the toddler
- Accept the ficus's ruling
- Let the squirrels audit it
DON'T
- Carve a footnote
- Request criteria in writing
- File an appeal against a toddler
-
Aquarius
Coworker will discover your band.
A coworker plays the band you found in 2014 and calls it new, and you have to smile.
With Mercury and retrograde Venus in your 10th house of career, expect somebody from work to play a band you found in 2014 on a dead blog and call it this new band I found. Your ruler Uranus, retrograde in your 5th, makes you want to explain the early EPs at the copier. Say oh, I love them too, and let them have the band.
DO
- Say you love them too
- Walk away from the copier
- Let the bassist stay gone
DON'T
- Explain the early EPs
- Mention the dead blog
- Ask if they've heard the demos
With Mercury and retrograde Venus in your 10th house of career, and Venus squaring Pluto in your own sign, expect your public life and your private identity to collide at work. Be wary of the office speaker this afternoon. Somebody from work will play a band you found in 2014 on a blog that no longer exists, and call it this new band I found.
Your contrarian ruler Uranus is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of fun and creativity, dragging old obsessions back into daylight, mainstream now and smelling like a car commercial. Uranus trines Pluto in your 1st, so expect the urge to explain the early EPs, the bassist who left and why the second album doesn't count to arrive with unstoppable force. Resist it. Nobody at the copier has ever asked a follow-up question.
Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house of partners and open enemies make the coworker a rival, a cheerful one, which is worse. With the North Node in your sign, destiny is pointing at personal growth, and today growth is five words long: Oh, I love them too. Let them have the band. The blog is dead, and so is your claim.
DO
- Say you love them too
- Walk away from the copier
- Let the bassist stay gone
DON'T
- Explain the early EPs
- Mention the dead blog
- Ask if they've heard the demos
Muted chat will elect you.
You mute the birthday group chat on principle, and a poll you never saw makes you the cake-bringer.
Demoted Pluto, the planet you relate to most, sits in your sign. This morning you mute a friend's birthday group chat as a political act, and in the chat you can't hear, a poll elects you cake-bringer in a landslide. Tonight eleven people look at your empty hands. Homework: go back out for a grocery-store sheet cake, and say 'the people have spoken' when you hand it over.
DO
- Unmute the birthday chat
- Read the poll results
- Bring a sheet cake
DON'T
- Call muting a political act
- Say 'consensus without consent'
- Question the poll's legitimacy
The material we're working with is Pluto in your sign, a planet the scientific establishment demoted, so you already relate to it more than anyone in your contacts. This morning a friend's birthday group chat will hit forty messages before you're out of bed, and what comes up for you will be the old, comfortable feeling of being above it. You'll mute it. You'll experience muting it as a political act.
At work you'll tell somebody that group chats are basically 'consensus without consent,' a phrase you'll admire privately all afternoon. Meanwhile, in the chat you can't hear, there will be a poll. The poll is about who brings the cake. You will be nominated, because you weren't there to object, and you will win in a landslide.
Tonight you'll walk into the restaurant empty-handed and philosophically intact, and eleven people will turn and look at your hands. The democratic process you've been explaining for years will finally have worked, on you. Homework: go back out to the grocery store for a sheet cake, and when you hand it over, say 'the people have spoken.'
DO
- Unmute the birthday chat
- Read the poll results
- Bring a sheet cake
DON'T
- Call muting a political act
- Say 'consensus without consent'
- Question the poll's legitimacy
You'll lecture a podcast host.
You explain a podcast to some guy at a bar for forty minutes; he hosts it; you correct him anyway.
After work some guy at a bar mentions a podcast, and you explain it to him for forty minutes, including the episode about lighthouses. He's the host. He says 'that's not what I meant.' You tell him it is. By last call he's offered you an unpaid guest spot on a napkin, and you've signed it. Ask one question tonight and wait for the whole answer. Lucky color: microphone-foam gray.
DO
- Ask the host one question
- Wait for the whole answer
- Leave the napkin on the bar
DON'T
- Mention the lighthouse episode
- Sign anything absorbent
- Pitch a podcast about his podcast
A stranger enters your orbit after work. Some guy at a bar mentions a podcast, and you explain it to him for forty minutes, including the episode about lighthouses and the bonus episode about the lighthouse episode. He is the host. He says 'that's not what I meant.' You tell him it is.
Career opportunities knock by last call: he offers you a guest spot, unpaid, written on a napkin. You call it the exploitation of creative labor. You sign the napkin. Avoid signing contracts. Too late. A Scorpio figures prominently, two stools down, quietly taking notes on both of you.
Romance is in the air, but you're explaining it to the air. Compatibility: high with anyone in noise-canceling headphones. The jukebox plays a song you'll call derivative. A friend will text 'how was your night,' and you'll reply with a link. Ask one question tonight and wait for the whole answer, you lecture-circuit space alien. Lucky number: 40, in minutes. Lucky color: microphone-foam gray.
DO
- Ask the host one question
- Wait for the whole answer
- Leave the napkin on the bar
DON'T
- Mention the lighthouse episode
- Sign anything absorbent
- Pitch a podcast about his podcast
-
Pisces
Supply room will inventory you.
You hide from work in the supply room, and by afternoon somebody with a clipboard counts you as inventory.
With Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of the daily grind and the Moon entering your sign, the workload and the feelings both arrive oversized, so expect to retreat to the supply room between the printer paper and the toner. Neptune retrograde in your 2nd blurs what you own and what you are; by afternoon expect somebody with a clipboard to count you. Leave before you're on a reorder form.
DO
- Leave the supply room
- Peel off the sticker
- Answer one status update
DON'T
- Hide behind the printer paper
- Befriend the toner
- Accept a SKU
With Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of the daily grind, the workload arrives hot, loud and in a size you didn't order. The brimming Moon moves into your own sign today, so you will feel all of it, and the feelings will need somewhere to go. Expect that somewhere to be the supply room, between the printer paper and the toner, where the light hums and nobody wants a status update.
Your foggy ruler Neptune is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of possessions and self-worth, with Saturn beside it taking attendance, blurring the line between what you own and what you are. Be wary of how long you stay. By afternoon, expect somebody with a clipboard to count the supply room, and expect to be counted, somewhere between eleven reams and a box of dry-erase markers.
The Moon trines Venus today, so the supply room will feel like a relationship: quiet, warm and a little codependent. The Moon also squares door-kicking Uranus, so the door opens when you least want it to. Leave the supply room before somebody puts you on a reorder form, and if there's already a sticker on you, peel it off gently.
DO
- Leave the supply room
- Peel off the sticker
- Answer one status update
DON'T
- Hide behind the printer paper
- Befriend the toner
- Accept a SKU
You'll absorb a stranger's breakup.
A stranger gets dumped on your bus, and by tonight you're drafting a breakup text to your bookshelf guy.
The leaky Moon sits in your sign today, seventy-eight percent full, a megaphone for feelings that aren't yours. On the bus this morning a stranger gets dumped over the phone behind you, and by work you're mourning a relationship you heard forty seconds of. Late tonight you draft a gentle breakup text to the guy who sold you a bookshelf. Homework: ride home with earbuds in, playing nothing.
DO
- Wear earbuds playing nothing
- Change seats on the bus
- Delete the draft
DON'T
- Invent her ex's face
- Say 'just processing something'
- Dump the bookshelf guy
The material today is the leaky, nearly-full Moon itself, seventy-eight percent lit and sitting directly in your sign, which for you is like being handed a megaphone for feelings that aren't yours. On the bus this morning, a woman in the seat behind you will get dumped over the phone. Not loudly. Just enough. What comes up for you is the old, familiar porousness: the boundary between you and a total stranger dissolving like a sugar cube in the rain.
By the time you get to work you'll be in full mourning for a relationship you heard roughly forty seconds of. You'll stare at a spreadsheet seeing her ex's face, which you've invented, and tell somebody from work you're 'just processing something,' which is technically true and practically deranged. You'll never learn anything else about her. You'll miss her anyway.
Late tonight, still carrying it, you'll draft a gentle breakup text to the guy who sold you a bookshelf on Facebook Marketplace, a person you were never dating, because something, somewhere, clearly needs ending. Homework: delete the draft, then ride the bus home with both earbuds in, playing nothing, and keep your feelings in your own seat.
DO
- Wear earbuds playing nothing
- Change seats on the bus
- Delete the draft
DON'T
- Invent her ex's face
- Say 'just processing something'
- Dump the bookshelf guy
You'll sit through three greens.
You sit through three green lights this morning wondering what a cloud weighs, and you wave back at every honk.
The Moon is in your sign, so this morning you sit through three green lights wondering what a cloud weighs. A man in a pickup honks, and you wave back, assuming he's saying hello. He follows you to the next light and yells 'GO,' and you hear it as a metaphor and are deeply moved. Go on green. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: green, finally.
DO
- Go on green
- Wonder about clouds while parked
- Apologize to the pickup
DON'T
- Wave at honks
- Hear GO as a metaphor
- Tell work the light was beautiful
The Moon is in your sign, so watch the road. A traffic light turns green this morning while you're wondering what a cloud weighs. It turns green twice more. A man in a pickup honks. You wave back, because you assume he's saying hello. Behind him, eleven cars form what you'll later describe as a parade.
Romance is in the air: the pickup man follows you to the next light, leans out his window and yells 'GO.' You hear it as a metaphor. You are deeply moved. You cry a little at that red, which is the first one you actually stop for. Compatibility: high with anyone who honks.
Money matters come to a head when you get to work late and tell somebody there the light was 'really beautiful today.' An Aries figures prominently, three cars back, losing his entire mind. An unexpected windfall: no ticket. The cop was also looking at the clouds. Go on green, you damp little cloud-weigher. Lucky number: 3, the greens. Lucky color: green, finally.
DO
- Go on green
- Wonder about clouds while parked
- Apologize to the pickup
DON'T
- Wave at honks
- Hear GO as a metaphor
- Tell work the light was beautiful
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-21 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 28.3° Libra |
|---|---|
| Moon | 2.3° Pisces |
| Mercury | 20.6° Scorpio |
| Venus | 2.2° Scorpio ℞ |
| Mars | 13.3° Leo |
| Jupiter | 23.0° Leo |
| Saturn | 10.0° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 5.0° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.3° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.6° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Moon trine Venus (0.1°, flowing)
- Venus square Pluto (0.8°, tense)
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.8°, easy)
- Uranus trine Pluto (1.9°, flowing)
- Mercury square Jupiter (2.4°, tense)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Moon square Uranus (2.7°, tense)
- Mars trine Saturn (3.3°, flowing)
- Sun conjunct Venus (3.9°, fused)
- Sun trine Moon (4.0°, flowing)
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 Wednesday, October 21, 2026.