ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Libra season
- Waxing Gibbous in Pisces
- 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 revolving door will win.
Saturn retrograde in your 1st means you'll charge a revolving door, it'll stop dead, and the lobby will watch.
With Saturn retrograde in your 1st house, every automatic thing runs on somebody else's clock today, and revolving doors run on Saturn's. Expect to hit one at full charge, the way you hit everything, and get sealed in a glass pie slice while the lobby watches you fog the pane. Mars trine Saturn says the brakes are in charge now. Let the door win.
DO
- Use the side door
- Stand still in the wedge
- Let the motor set the pace
DON'T
- Shove the glass
- Race anyone to the car
- Challenge the door to a rematch
With Saturn retrograde in your 1st house, parked right on top of fog-machine Neptune, also retrograde, your body runs today at a speed set by somebody else. Expect automatic things to resist you: crosswalk buttons, elevator doors, motion-sensor faucets. Be especially wary of revolving doors. You will hit one at full charge, the way you hit everything, and it will stop dead, sealing you in a glass pie slice while an entire lobby watches you fog up the pane.
With your sword-swinging drunk uncle of a ruler, Mars, in your 5th house of romance beside Jupiter, flirting turns into a contact sport. Anyone who suggests something light this evening, a walk, a round of pool, will hear the word 'challenge.' Resist the urge to win the walk. Nobody in recorded history has been seduced by the person who beat them to the car.
The one mercy is Mars trine Saturn, which tells your gas pedal to take orders from your brakes for once in your life. This is not the day to shove harder. When the glass stops, stand still, let the motor find its pace, and exit at the speed of a man in orthopedic loafers. Let the door win.
DO
- Use the side door
- Stand still in the wedge
- Let the motor set the pace
DON'T
- Shove the glass
- Race anyone to the car
- Challenge the door to a rematch
You'll argue against your victory.
A coworker finally concedes you're right this morning, and you argue their side until you lose.
Saturn is backing through your first house, and the symptom is familiar: you need an opponent like oxygen. At work, somebody who's fought you for three weeks will finally say 'you're right,' and what comes up is grief, not relief. By afternoon you'll argue their old side better than they did, and lose. Homework: play tic-tac-toe against yourself on a napkin, lose on purpose, and sign it.
DO
- Accept the concession
- Let dinner be anything
- Lose to the napkin
DON'T
- Argue the other guy's side
- Pick a fight with GPS
- Demand a napkin rematch
The material we're working with today is Saturn, backing slowly through your first house, and the presenting symptom is the one we keep returning to: you need an opponent the way other people need oxygen. At work this morning, somebody who has fought you on the same budget line for three weeks will say, quietly, 'You know what? You're right.' Notice what comes up. It won't be relief. It will be grief.
Without an enemy, your system builds one out of spare parts. By lunch you'll be arguing their old position, better than they ever did, and by late afternoon you'll have talked them back into it and lost. After work, somebody will say 'whatever you want for dinner,' and you'll take that as a second ambush. You'll pick a fight with the GPS instead, and the GPS, to its credit, will just reroute.
Late tonight the inner child shows up: the kid who flipped the Monopoly board, not because they were losing, but because everyone else had stopped trying. That kid is tired. So are you. Homework: draw a tic-tac-toe grid on a napkin, play yourself, and lose on purpose. Then sign the napkin.
DO
- Accept the concession
- Let dinner be anything
- Lose to the napkin
DON'T
- Argue the other guy's side
- Pick a fight with GPS
- Demand a napkin rematch
Elevator will wait for cake.
You'll jab the elevator's close-door button forty times, and it'll hold the door for an entire office party.
An elevator figures prominently. At work you will press the close-door button forty times, harder each time, and it is wired to nothing. It never was. The doors will hold instead for an entire office birthday party, sheet cake and helium balloon included, and a man will say there's always room for one more. Take the stairs. All of them.
DO
- Take all the stairs
- Press the button once
- Let the sheet cake board first
DON'T
- Accept the self-checkout dare
- Sprint to the signature line
- Elbow the birthday balloon
An elevator figures prominently today. At work you will press the close-door button forty times in a row, harder each time, like it owes you money. It is not wired to anything. It never was. The doors will hold instead, patiently, for an entire office birthday party: a sheet cake, a helium balloon and a man who says there's always room for one more.
Romance is in the air, and you will try to beat it to the exit. A stranger at self-checkout waves you ahead, and you take it as a dare. Avoid signing contracts. You never read them anyway. You just sprint to the signature like it's a finish line.
Money matters come to a head when the parking garage gate rises slower than you'd like and you take it personally. A Taurus crosses your path and does not move out of the doorway. Compatibility: low with anything that has a waiting period. Take the stairs. All of them. Lucky number: 40. Lucky color: placebo-button beige.
DO
- Take all the stairs
- Press the button once
- Let the sheet cake board first
DON'T
- Accept the self-checkout dare
- Sprint to the signature line
- Elbow the birthday balloon
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Taurus
You'll annex the entire duvet.
Retrograde Venus rewrites the blanket treaty tonight, and by morning you're a duvet burrito beside somebody in a bath towel.
With your ruler Venus retrograde in your 7th house of contracts and squaring Pluto, every shared thing becomes a treaty, and tonight the treaty is the duvet. Anyone under a blanket with you, partner, houseguest or ambitious dog, should expect the terms revised retroactively. By morning you're an immovable burrito and they're under a bath towel. Keep the duvet. Deny the towel.
DO
- Tuck in all four corners
- Add a third pillow
- Keep the duvet
DON'T
- Explain the treaty
- Read the group chat
- Ask the towel how it slept
With your backpedaling ruler Venus retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house of partners and contracts, and squaring Pluto, everything shared becomes a negotiation, and you do not negotiate. Expect it to come to a head tonight over the duvet. Anyone who ends up under a blanket with you, partner, houseguest, a dog with ambitions, should know the terms have been revised retroactively. By morning you will be a warm, immovable burrito, and the other party will be sleeping under a bath towel.
Mars and Jupiter, the sky's two loudest roommates, are camped in your 4th house of home, inflating whatever you already hoard. Be wary of the urge to add a third pillow, then a fourth, until your side of the bed is a fortified position with throw-pillow sandbags.
The Moon in Pisces in your 11th house of friends makes them sympathetic to whoever woke up under the towel, so expect the group chat to hear about it by lunch. This is not the day to explain the treaty, and it is sure as hell not the day to give anything back. Keep the duvet. Deny the towel.
DO
- Tuck in all four corners
- Add a third pillow
- Keep the duvet
DON'T
- Explain the treaty
- Read the group chat
- Ask the towel how it slept
Tailor will meet your sweatpants.
Somebody suggests tossing your ruined sweatpants, and by lunch you've paid a tailor forty dollars to save them.
With Venus retrograde in your partners house, the attachment work happens on a pair of pants. Early, somebody you live with holds up your gray sweatpants with the dead knee and asks, 'These can go, right?' By lunch you've paid a tailor forty dollars to patch twelve-dollar pants and told him they've been through a lot with you. Homework: write the sweatpants a thank-you note and hide it in the pocket.
DO
- Snatch the sweatpants back
- Tip the tailor
- Write the thank-you note
DON'T
- Let them near the trash
- Explain the knee
- Introduce the pants at dinner
Today's material is Venus, your ruler, retrograde in your house of partners, which is a clinical way of saying the attachment work is going to happen on a pair of pants. Early this morning, somebody you live with will hold up the gray sweatpants, the ones with the knee gone and the drawstring lost to history, and ask, 'These can go, right?' Watch how fast your hand moves. You'll have them back before the sentence ends.
At lunch, instead of processing that, you'll take them to a tailor. You'll pay forty dollars to patch twelve-dollar pants, and when the tailor asks if you're sure, you'll say 'they've been through a lot with me,' which is a sentence usually reserved for spouses and dogs.
Tonight you'll wear them to dinner with the person who suggested the trash, and you'll be pleasant in a way that is technically hostile. What we're avoiding is that the sweatpants aren't the thing in this house that refuses to change. Homework: write the sweatpants a sincere thank-you note and hide it in the pocket, where nobody will ever look.
DO
- Snatch the sweatpants back
- Tip the tailor
- Write the thank-you note
DON'T
- Let them near the trash
- Explain the knee
- Introduce the pants at dinner
Firefighters will carry your lasagna.
The fire drill clears the building except you, so firefighters will carry your lasagna outside and you'll follow it.
A loud noise interrupts your lunch: the fire alarm, only a drill. You will not move. Coworkers file down the stairwell while you finish the crispy corner of the lasagna, so firefighters carry your plate to the parking lot, and you follow it, which is the only way anyone has ever moved you. Stay seated until the plate goes.
DO
- Finish the corner piece
- Follow the plate outside
- Keep the mistake garlic knots
DON'T
- Try the new restaurant
- Share the bus bench
- Evacuate without a fork
A loud noise interrupts your lunch. It is the fire alarm. It is only a drill. You will not move. Coworkers file down the stairwell while you finish the corner piece of the lasagna, the one with the crispy edges, the one you've been thinking about since Tuesday. Firefighters will carry your lasagna to the parking lot. You will follow it, which is the only way anyone has ever gotten you to go anywhere.
A friend suggests a new restaurant for Saturday. You will counter-offer the old restaurant. You will win. A stranger asks to share your bench at the bus stop, and the answer is visible on your face from across the street.
Tonight the couch holds your shape like a reserved parking spot. An unexpected windfall: the pizza place throws in garlic knots by mistake. Keep them. A Scorpio figures prominently and wants one. Compatibility: high with anything that reheats. Stay seated until the plate moves. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: microwave-turntable gray.
DO
- Finish the corner piece
- Follow the plate outside
- Keep the mistake garlic knots
DON'T
- Try the new restaurant
- Share the bus bench
- Evacuate without a fork
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Gemini
Both sides will quote you.
Mercury squares Jupiter, two feuding coworkers each claim your support, and you'll be quoted by both in one meeting.
With Mercury in your 6th house of the daily grind squaring blowhard Jupiter, whatever you say at work gets repeated louder than you said it. Two coworkers in a feud will each come to you alone, and both your faces will agree with both of them. Expect to be quoted by each side in the same afternoon meeting. Pick one face and leave the other in the car.
DO
- Agree with nobody before lunch
- Pick one face
- Leave the other in the car
DON'T
- Copy-paste your sympathy
- Volunteer to mediate
- Nod at both ends of the table
With your ruler Mercury in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring blowhard Jupiter in your 3rd, whatever you say at work today gets repeated louder than you said it. Expect two coworkers already in a feud to come to you separately, and expect both of your faces to agree with both of them. Mercury in Scorpio means each will remember your exact words. By the afternoon meeting, be prepared to hear yourself quoted by both sides as the deciding vote.
Mars joins Jupiter in that 3rd house of texting, which makes your thumbs braver than your spine. Be wary of sending the same sympathetic message to both camps, and resist the urge to copy-paste it, because one of them will notice the identical typo.
With erratic Uranus retrograde in your own sign, even you can't predict which face shows up to that meeting, and Venus retrograde in your 6th drags last year's office grudges back in through the side door. This is not the day to mediate. When both sides turn to you, pick one face and leave the other one in the car.
DO
- Agree with nobody before lunch
- Pick one face
- Leave the other in the car
DON'T
- Copy-paste your sympathy
- Volunteer to mediate
- Nod at both ends of the table
You'll dodge ukulele with pottery.
A friend asks about the ukulele, and by afternoon you've signed up for pottery to avoid answering.
Uranus is retrograde in your sign, hauling old enthusiasms back into the room. This morning a friend texts 'how's the ukulele going?' You haven't touched it since spring, so you send a staged couch photo, then spend the afternoon signing up for pottery and sourdough so the ukulele becomes 'one of my things.' Homework: play one bad chord for the ukulele's sake and tell nobody.
DO
- Admit spring was a while ago
- Play one bad chord
- Face the hobby closet
DON'T
- Stage the ukulele photo
- Buy a pottery apron
- Learn Norwegian about it
The material today is Uranus, retrograde in your own sign, which has a habit of dragging old enthusiasms back into the room. Sometime this morning a friend will text, innocently, 'how's the ukulele going?' You haven't touched it since spring. Notice the defense: you'll send a photo of the ukulele propped on the couch, as if mid-practice, as if it had just stepped out for a minute.
This afternoon, rather than sit with the shame, you'll diversify it. A pottery class, a sourdough starter, a language app teaching you Norwegian for reasons you can't explain. The goal isn't to learn anything. The goal is to make the ukulele 'just one of my things.' Pottery starts next Thursday, and some part of you has already canceled.
Late tonight you'll open the hall closet and meet the family system: the rollerblades, the calligraphy set, the eleven inches of scarf, each one a version of you who really meant it. They're not angry. They're just waiting. Homework: take out the ukulele, play one chord badly for the ukulele's benefit alone, and tell no one, least of all the friend.
DO
- Admit spring was a while ago
- Play one bad chord
- Face the hobby closet
DON'T
- Stage the ukulele photo
- Buy a pottery apron
- Learn Norwegian about it
Both dinners will meet outside.
You'll attend two dinners across one parking lot, and by dessert both tables will meet outside and compare notes.
Your social calendar overflows: two dinners tonight, an Olive Garden and a Chili's sharing one parking lot, and you attend both, sprinting between them under the guise of a phone call, breadsticks in one pocket. Around dessert, both tables step outside at once and find each other. They compare notes, including your two birthdays. Pick one face and leave it on.
DO
- Take the fake call outside
- Pocket the breadsticks
- Pick one face
DON'T
- Say 'like I told you'
- Order dessert at both
- Celebrate both birthdays tonight
Your social calendar overflows. You have said yes to two dinners tonight, one at the Olive Garden and one at the Chili's across the same parking lot, and you will attend both. You will sprint between them under the guise of a phone call. Twice. Breadsticks in one pocket. Chips in the other.
Romance is in the air, but it has heard two versions of your weekend. At work, avoid saying 'like I told you.' You told them something else. An unexpected windfall: a coworker forgets which story you told and believes both. A Libra figures prominently and is unsure which of you she's talking to.
Around dessert, both tables step outside at the same moment and find each other in the parking lot. They will compare notes. They will compare your stories. They will compare the two different birthdays you've given them. Pick one face and leave it on. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: breadstick beige on one side, salsa red on the other.
DO
- Take the fake call outside
- Pocket the breadsticks
- Pick one face
DON'T
- Say 'like I told you'
- Order dessert at both
- Celebrate both birthdays tonight
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Cancer
You'll miss a stranger's kitchen.
Jupiter in your money house serves a Vermont farmhouse listing, and you'll get homesick for a stranger's kitchen.
With Jupiter in your 2nd house of money and your weepy ruling Moon in your 9th house of far-off places, expect a real-estate app to show you a Vermont farmhouse you will never afford or visit. You will get homesick for it anyway, and cry at the window over the sink. Saturn in your 10th sends somebody from work past your screen. Close the tab.
DO
- Close the real-estate tab
- Cry at your own sink
- Admire your own kitchen
DON'T
- Zoom in on the seller's dog
- Run the mortgage calculator
- Mail the seller a casserole
With Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd house of money, your spending today runs on feelings, and your feelings are the size of a cruise ship. Expect to open a real-estate app for no reason and land on a listing in a town you've never visited: a Vermont farmhouse with a breakfast nook, a mudroom and a woodstove. Be wary of the price. You cannot afford it, and Jupiter will not be the one to tell you.
Your weepy ruling Moon sits in Pisces in your 9th house of far-off places, trining Mercury in your 5th house of romance, which means you are going to fall in love with a kitchen. Expect to zoom in on the seller's dog in the background of photo eleven. Expect to cry at the window over the sink, which faces a barn you will never see in person.
Saturn retrograde in your 10th house of career sends somebody from work past your screen at exactly the wrong moment, and this is not the day to explain that you're homesick for a stranger's mudroom. Close the tab. Leave the stranger's kitchen to the stranger.
DO
- Close the real-estate tab
- Cry at your own sink
- Admire your own kitchen
DON'T
- Zoom in on the seller's dog
- Run the mortgage calculator
- Mail the seller a casserole
You'll rescue the third-grade diorama.
Your mother asks to toss your third-grade diorama, and by tonight it's living on your kitchen table.
With the Moon nearly full in Pisces, everything comes up with the tide. Early, your mother leaves a voicemail: she found your third-grade penguin diorama in the garage, can she toss it? You'll spend the afternoon at work drafting a custody argument, then carry the shoebox out like a firefighter and seat it at your kitchen table. Homework: throw out one cotton-ball snowdrift yourself and call her to report it.
DO
- Save the voicemail forever
- Rescue the crooked penguin
- Report the cotton-ball loss
DON'T
- Draft the custody memo
- Look under the bed
- Ask a coworker to testify
Today's material is the Moon, your ruler, nearly full and floating in Pisces, so whatever comes up will come up with the tide. Early, your mother leaves a voicemail: she's cleaning the garage, she found your third-grade diorama, the one with the clay penguins, and can she toss it? Notice the shell go up. You won't call back. You'll save the voicemail.
At work this afternoon you'll accomplish nothing on the spreadsheet and a great deal on the custody argument. Bullet points. Precedent. A line about how the smallest penguin has always been a little crooked and that's the whole point. You'll stop just short of asking somebody from work to be a character witness.
After work you'll drive over, carry the shoebox out of the garage like a firefighter, and set it in the middle of your kitchen table, where it will be eating dinner with you for the foreseeable future. What we're not discussing is how many shoeboxes are already under your bed. Homework: remove one cotton-ball snowdrift from the diorama, throw it out yourself, and call your mother to report the loss.
DO
- Save the voicemail forever
- Rescue the crooked penguin
- Report the cotton-ball loss
DON'T
- Draft the custody memo
- Look under the bed
- Ask a coworker to testify
Delivery driver will return Tupperware.
You'll send the delivery driver off with soup, and tonight your Tupperware comes back washed, which will wreck you.
A package arrives this morning, and so does your mothering instinct: you send the delivery driver back to his truck with soup, crackers and your good Tupperware, the one with the matching lid. Late tonight it returns to your porch, washed, with a sticky note that says thanks. You cry harder than you did over the soup. Do not make him more soup.
DO
- Pack the soup
- Lend the good Tupperware
- Read the sticky note sitting down
DON'T
- Visit the greeting card aisle
- Make him more soup
- Adopt the delivery driver
A package arrives this morning. So does your mothering instinct. You will send the delivery driver back to his truck with a container of soup, a sleeve of crackers and your good Tupperware, the one whose lid still matches. He will not have asked. He will not be able to refuse.
At work a coworker says 'have a good one' and means it, and you will need a minute in the stairwell. Avoid the greeting card aisle. Avoid the pet adoption flyer at the grocery store. Avoid eye contact with any cardigan.
Late tonight the Tupperware returns to your porch, washed, lid on, with a sticky note that says thanks. This will destroy you. You will cry harder than you did over the soup. A Pisces figures prominently and cries back, in a different key. Compatibility: high with anyone who returns containers. You will try to adopt him. Do not make him more soup. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: sticky-note yellow, smeared.
DO
- Pack the soup
- Lend the good Tupperware
- Read the sticky note sitting down
DON'T
- Visit the greeting card aisle
- Make him more soup
- Adopt the delivery driver
-
Leo
You'll blow out someone's candles.
With Jupiter in your 1st, you'll lean over a Libra's birthday cake and blow out the candles yourself.
Your ruling Sun spends Libra season's last degree in your 3rd house of coworkers and neighbors, so somebody else's birthday cake lands near you today. Mars and Jupiter in your 1st house swell your lungs and your timing: expect to drift to the center of the singing and blow out the candles before the birthday Libra finishes the wish. Clap for somebody else.
DO
- Stand at the back
- Hum along quietly
- Clap for somebody else
DON'T
- Lean toward the frosting
- Say you were helping
- Take a bow over the cake
With your big-headed ruling Sun spending its last degree of Libra season in your 3rd house of coworkers and neighbors, fused to retrograde Venus and squaring Pluto, somebody else's celebration lands directly in your path. Expect a birthday cake within arm's reach today: the break room, a friend's dinner, a neighbor's porch. Be warned. It is not your cake, sweetheart.
Mars and Jupiter both sit in your 1st house, swelling the conviction that every room is a stage you rented. When the singing starts, expect to drift toward the center of it. Expect to lean in. Expect, with Jupiter's lungs and Mars's timing, to blow out the candles before the actual birthday Libra has finished making the wish.
Mercury squaring that bloated Jupiter turns every explanation into a second offense, so resist the urge to tell the room you were helping, or that your wish was better anyway. This is not the day to take a bow over the frosting. Stand at the back of the photo, hum, and clap for somebody else.
DO
- Stand at the back
- Hum along quietly
- Clap for somebody else
DON'T
- Lean toward the frosting
- Say you were helping
- Take a bow over the cake
One period will ruin Thursday.
A coworker answers your best deck with 'ok.', and you spend all Thursday auditioning for their approval.
Mercury squares Jupiter, which is sitting in your sign, so tiny language gets huge. This morning a coworker answers your proudest deck with 'ok.', lowercase, with a period. You'll hit the gym at lunch to look better for their meeting, then read the text aloud to four friends tonight for tone. Homework: send one person 'ok.' with a period, put your phone in another room, and survive.
DO
- Take the period literally
- Eat lunch instead of lifting
- Send one 'ok.' yourself
DON'T
- Present their section for fun
- Poll friends on tone
- Ask the period what it meant
The material today is Mercury square Jupiter, and Jupiter happens to be in your sign, so a very small piece of language is about to get very large. This morning you'll send somebody from work the deck you're proudest of. They'll reply: 'ok.' Lowercase. With a period. Notice what comes up. Not curiosity. An audit. Every slide you've made since 2019 goes on trial.
At lunch you'll go to the gym, which you'll tell yourself is unrelated, so you look better in the afternoon meeting with the person who typed it. In that meeting you'll laugh at their joke a beat too early and too long, and offer to present their section 'for fun.' They'll say ok. Out loud. Somehow that one has a period too.
Tonight you'll read the message aloud to three friends and ask each of them to do the tone. One says it's fine, so you'll call a fourth. What we're avoiding is the possibility that someone, somewhere, did not think about you all damn day. Homework: send one person the word 'ok.' with a period, put your phone in another room, and survive it.
DO
- Take the period literally
- Eat lunch instead of lifting
- Send one 'ok.' yourself
DON'T
- Present their section for fun
- Poll friends on tone
- Ask the period what it meant
You'll pose for the ticket.
A red-light camera flashes, you hold the pose, and tonight you'll beg the city for the high-res.
A flash of light changes everything: the red-light camera on the way to work. You hold the pose, chin down, one hand on the wheel like a cologne ad, while the guy behind you honks for a block. It is the best picture ever taken of you. Late tonight you'll email the city for the high-res file, twice, with a note about the lighting. Order it on canvas.
DO
- Hold the pose
- Email the traffic division twice
- Order it on canvas
DON'T
- Blink at the yellow
- Let the Virgo read the fine
- Ask the camera for a retake
A flash of light changes everything. It is the red-light camera on the way to work, and you will hold the pose: chin down, eyes up, one hand on the wheel like a cologne ad. The guy behind you honks for a full block. You will take it as applause.
At work the ticket photo appears on the city website after lunch, and it is the best picture ever taken of you. You will make it your profile picture. Three coworkers like it. One asks if it's a mugshot. You'll say basically, beaming. Money matters come to a head when you realize the fine is cheaper than a headshot.
Late tonight you will email the city's traffic division requesting the high-res file. Twice. With a note about the lighting. Avoid photo booths; they cannot handle you. A Virgo figures prominently and reads the fine out loud. Compatibility: high with anything that flashes. Order it on canvas. Hang it over the couch. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: violation red.
DO
- Hold the pose
- Email the traffic division twice
- Order it on canvas
DON'T
- Blink at the yellow
- Let the Virgo read the fine
- Ask the camera for a retake
-
Virgo
You'll vandalize a sign correctly.
Mercury in your neighborhood house finds a misplaced apostrophe, and late tonight you'll fix the sign with a Sharpie.
With your ruler Mercury in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors, expect a hand-lettered yard-sale sign near home to say 'Saturday's,' and expect it to follow you to bed. Mars and Jupiter hiding in your 12th turn the grudge covert: late tonight you'll go back with a Sharpie and fix it in matching handwriting. Cap the Sharpie and tell nobody.
DO
- Match the original handwriting
- Wear something dark tonight
- Cap the Sharpie
DON'T
- Fix it in daylight
- Initial your correction
- Footnote the apostrophe rule
With your ruler Mercury in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors and short trips, your eye for error goes out walking today, and it has a stinger. Expect to pass a hand-lettered sign somewhere close to home, a yard sale, a bake sale, a church marquee, with an apostrophe where no apostrophe belongs. 'Yard Sale Saturday's.' 'Pie's $5.' You will not be able to unsee it at dinner, in the shower or, regrettably, in bed.
Mars and Jupiter are hiding in your 12th house of secrets, and Mercury's square to Jupiter turns a grammar grudge into a covert operation. Be wary of the Sharpie in your junk drawer, the one you used to label the junk drawer. Late tonight you will go back out and fix the sign, neatly, in matching handwriting, and walk home feeling like Batman with a minor in English.
The Moon in Pisces in your 7th house of partners trines Mercury, so expect anyone who sees you tonight to ask why your fingers smell like marker. This is not the day to confess. By tomorrow the neighborhood app will be asking who keeps fixing the signs, and you will want the credit so badly it hurts. Cap the Sharpie and tell nobody.
DO
- Match the original handwriting
- Wear something dark tonight
- Cap the Sharpie
DON'T
- Fix it in daylight
- Initial your correction
- Footnote the apostrophe rule
They'll catch you reloading tonight.
Somebody loads the dishwasher for you as a kindness, and late tonight they catch you reloading it.
Mars and Jupiter are in your house of secrets, which matters around midnight. Early, somebody you live with loads the dishwasher as a favor: bowls facing outward, spatula across the top rack like a drunk. You'll sketch the rack on a Post-it at work, then reload it tonight by phone flashlight until they catch you holding the spatula. Homework: leave one bowl wrong until morning.
DO
- Say thank you and mean it
- Use the Post-it for work
- Leave one bowl wrong
DON'T
- Reload by phone flashlight
- Claim you came for water
- Hold the spatula as an alibi
Today's material is Mars and Jupiter in your twelfth house, the house of secrets, which becomes relevant around midnight. Early this morning, somebody you live with will load the dishwasher for you, as a kindness. Bowls facing outward. A spatula lying flat across the top rack like a drunk. You'll say 'thank you so much,' and your face will file a separate report.
At work you'll find you can't hold a thought. During the afternoon meeting you'll sketch the top rack on a Post-it, with arrows. Somebody will ask if that's the new org chart, and you'll say yes, because in a sense it is: some things face the sprayer and some things don't.
Late tonight you'll creep downstairs and reload the entire machine by phone flashlight. That's when they'll appear in the doorway. You'll be holding the spatula. You'll say you came down for water. What we're avoiding is the idea that being helped means not being in charge. Homework: leave one bowl facing the wrong way until morning, and do not look at it on your way to bed.
DO
- Say thank you and mean it
- Use the Post-it for work
- Leave one bowl wrong
DON'T
- Reload by phone flashlight
- Claim you came for water
- Hold the spatula as an alibi
Page thirty-one will need you.
You'll read all forty-seven pages of your phone's new terms, and a Cupertino lawyer will answer your comma report.
Your phone asks you to agree to new terms and conditions, and you read them, all forty-seven pages, through breakfast, the bus ride and a meeting you were technically leading. On page thirty-one: a misplaced comma. You report it. Late tonight a lawyer in Cupertino emails back one word, noted, and you reply with a second comma from page forty. Never tap Agree.
DO
- Read page thirty-one twice
- Report the comma
- Find the second comma
DON'T
- Tap Agree
- Trust a friend's 'literally'
- Accept 'noted' as an answer
Your phone asks you to agree to new terms and conditions. You will read them. All of them. Forty-seven pages on a six-inch screen, through breakfast, through the bus ride, through a meeting you were technically leading. It takes until lunch. On page thirty-one: a misplaced comma. You will report it.
Romance is in the air, but it has used 'your' wrong in a text. A friend will say 'literally' and not mean it, and you will let it go, out loud, for twenty minutes. Avoid the lunch menu. It says 'irregardless' somewhere. You can feel it.
Late tonight a lawyer in Cupertino emails back one word: noted. You will reply with a second, smaller comma you found on page forty. Avoid signing contracts; you will never finish reading them. A Gemini figures prominently and taps Agree on everything without looking. Compatibility: none, pending review. Never tap Agree. Lucky number: 31. Lucky color: track-changes blue.
DO
- Read page thirty-one twice
- Report the comma
- Find the second comma
DON'T
- Tap Agree
- Trust a friend's 'literally'
- Accept 'noted' as an answer
-
Libra BIRTHDAY SEASON
The original white will win.
With Venus retrograde, you'll test eleven whites on one wall and pick the white already there.
With your ruler Venus retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, one wall comes up for review: expect eleven white swatches taped side by side, Chantilly Lace and Alabaster among them, and a squint through three changes of daylight. Mars and Jupiter in your 11th bring a split friend poll. Venus retrograde favors the old, so the winner is the white already there. Call it a renovation.
DO
- Tape up all eleven
- Poll the group chat
- Call it a renovation
DON'T
- Buy a sample quart
- Ask the paint-counter guy
- Hold a runoff between identical whites
With your dithering ruler Venus retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of possessions, squaring Pluto, the things you own come up for review today, starting with the color of one wall. Expect eleven white paint swatches taped side by side, Chantilly Lace, White Dove, Alabaster and eight more you couldn't pick out of a police lineup, and expect to stand in front of them through three changes of daylight.
Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends make sure you won't suffer alone. Expect a group-chat poll. Expect it to split evenly between the two whites even you admit are the same white, and expect one friend to vote 'just pick one,' as if that were ever on the ballot.
The Sun spends its final degree of Libra season in your 1st house, squaring Pluto, and retrograde Venus favors what you already have over anything new. Be prepared: after the swatches, the poll and the long squint, the white you choose will be the white the wall already is. This is the day to accept it. Peel off the tape and call it a renovation.
DO
- Tape up all eleven
- Poll the group chat
- Call it a renovation
DON'T
- Buy a sample quart
- Ask the paint-counter guy
- Hold a runoff between identical whites
You'll win in the shower.
A man cuts you at the deli, you apologize to him, and tonight you finally win in the shower.
The Sun sits on a retrograde Venus in your sign, lighting up the old pattern: you'd rather be liked than be next. At the deli counter this morning, a man in a fleece vest cuts in front of you, and you say 'oh, sorry!' Tonight you'll win the argument fifteen ways, to the conditioner bottle. Homework: say 'excuse me,' not 'sorry,' to one inanimate object.
DO
- Hold your place in line
- Rank the comebacks
- Say 'excuse me' to something
DON'T
- Apologize to the fleece vest
- Save the mean one
- Take a bow for conditioner
Today's material is the Sun in your sign, sitting right on top of a retrograde Venus, which lights up the pattern we keep circling: you would rather be liked than be next. This morning at the deli counter, a man in a fleece vest will step directly in front of you and order a pound of smoked turkey. Watch what comes out of your mouth. It will be 'oh, sorry!'
At work this afternoon, every task will run with a second program in the background. Your hands will answer email while the rest of you drafts comebacks. By the end of the day there will be fourteen, ranked, plus a fifteenth you're holding back because it's a little too mean, by which we mean it's mildly assertive.
In the shower tonight you'll deliver all fifteen to the conditioner bottle. It will go beautifully. The man will apologize, the deli clerk will applaud, and the turkey will be sliced thinner out of respect. Notice that the only arguments you've ever won took place in a room with a drain. Homework: tomorrow, say 'excuse me,' not 'sorry,' to one inanimate object, and hold eye contact.
DO
- Hold your place in line
- Rank the comebacks
- Say 'excuse me' to something
DON'T
- Apologize to the fleece vest
- Save the mean one
- Take a bow for conditioner
Only hot dogs will remain.
You'll deliberate in a Halloween pop-up until only two costumes remain: hot dog and sexy hot dog.
It is your season, and you spend it in a Halloween pop-up choosing between a witch and a pumpkin, then a pirate, then a sexy pirate, while the afternoon passes and teenagers in lanyards restock around you. By closing, two costumes remain: a hot dog and a sexy hot dog. A Leo takes the sexy one. Take the hot dog and go.
DO
- Take the remaining hot dog
- Let somebody else pick dinner
- Leave before the music dies
DON'T
- Reject nine restaurants
- Ask the manager's opinion
- Fight the Leo for sexy
It is your season, and you will spend it in a Halloween pop-up shop deciding between a witch and a pumpkin. Then a pirate enters the conversation. Then a sexy pirate. The afternoon passes. Teenagers in lanyards begin restocking around you, then give up restocking around you.
A friend texts asking where you want to go for your birthday. You will reply 'wherever!' and then reject nine places. Avoid the hostess who asks booth or table. Romance is in the air but needs you to pick an appetizer. An unexpected windfall: somebody else chooses. You will resent it gracefully.
By closing, the shelves are bare except for two costumes: a hot dog and a sexy hot dog. You will stand under the fluorescent lights with one in each hand while a manager kills the music. A Leo figures prominently and takes the sexy one. Compatibility: high with relish. Take the hot dog and go. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: mustard, the only one left.
DO
- Take the remaining hot dog
- Let somebody else pick dinner
- Leave before the music dies
DON'T
- Reject nine restaurants
- Ask the manager's opinion
- Fight the Leo for sexy
-
Scorpio
You'll plant a spite hedge.
Pluto in your home house sharpens a grudge, and after work you'll plant arborvitae to black out the neighbor's light.
With your ruler Pluto in your 4th house of home, squared by retrograde Venus in your sign, your grudge against the neighbor's motion-sensor light finally gets a strategy. Expect to skip the fence, which is obvious, and buy six fast-growing arborvitae at the garden center after work. Saturn retrograde in your 6th promises years of watering. Plant the spite hedge and smile when they call it lovely.
DO
- Buy the fast-growing kind
- Water it every single day
- Smile at the neighbor
DON'T
- Build an obvious fence
- Mention the light
- Brief the saplings on their mission
With your demoted, grudge-holding ruler Pluto in Aquarius in your 4th house of home, squared by retrograde Venus sitting in your own sign, the neighborhood grudge you've been nursing finally gets a strategy. Expect the neighbor's motion-sensor light, the one that snaps on every time you take out the trash, to bother you more than usual today. Expect to stand at the back door longer than an innocent person needs to.
Mercury in your 1st house sharpens the plan, and Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house of ambition give it a five-year horizon. Be wary of the garden center after work. You will not buy a fence; fences are obvious. You will buy six arborvitae, read the tag that says 'fast-growing, up to twenty feet,' and do the math on when that light goes dark for good.
Saturn retrograde in your 6th house of daily chores promises watering, every day, for years, and you won't mind, because revenge is the only routine you've ever kept. This is not the day to tell the neighbor a damn thing. Plant the spite hedge and smile when they call it lovely.
DO
- Buy the fast-growing kind
- Water it every single day
- Smile at the neighbor
DON'T
- Build an obvious fence
- Mention the light
- Brief the saplings on their mission
Unlocked phone will haunt you.
A friend hands you their unlocked phone and says 'scroll, I don't care,' and now you'll never trust them.
Venus squares Pluto with Mercury and Venus in your sign: a locked drawer with a note taped to it. At lunch a friend hands you their unlocked phone for one dog photo and says, 'Scroll, I don't care.' By afternoon you're theorizing about their second phone, and tonight you change your own passcode twice. Homework: leave your phone face-up and unlocked for one sitcom episode.
DO
- Look at the dog only
- Hand the phone right back
- Survive one sitcom episode
DON'T
- Theorize a second phone
- Change your passcode twice
- Ask what they're really hiding
The material today is Mercury and Venus, both in your sign, with Venus squaring Pluto, your ruler, which is the astrological equivalent of a locked drawer with a note taped to it. At lunch, a friend will hand you their unlocked phone to show you one photo of a dog. You'll hold it like live ordnance, thumb nowhere near the screen. Then they'll say, 'Scroll, I don't care.'
Notice what comes up. Not relief. Suspicion. Nobody has nothing to hide, so this afternoon at work, while appearing to answer email, you'll build a working theory of what a person with no secrets is hiding. You'll consider a second phone. You'll consider it more than once.
Tonight, to feel safe again, you'll change your own passcode twice and turn off message previews, against no specific threat. What we're avoiding is the possibility that some people are simply like that, and it isn't a tactic. Homework: leave your phone face-up and unlocked on the kitchen counter for the length of one sitcom episode, and sit on your hands.
DO
- Look at the dog only
- Hand the phone right back
- Survive one sitcom episode
DON'T
- Theorize a second phone
- Change your passcode twice
- Ask what they're really hiding
Vending machine will beg forgiveness.
A vending machine eats your dollar, and when it begs forgiveness with two free bags of Funyuns, you'll refuse.
A vending machine at work takes your dollar this morning and gives you nothing. By lunch you know its restock schedule and its serial number. After work it makes amends, dropping two free bags of Funyuns, and you refuse them, leaving them in the slot where it can see. A Cancer eats them. Keep the grudge; the dollar was never the point.
DO
- Memorize the restock schedule
- Leave the Funyuns in the slot
- Keep the grudge
DON'T
- Accept the Funyuns
- Trust a held door
- Let the machine see you blink
A vending machine at work takes your dollar this morning and gives you nothing. This will not stand. By lunch you will know its restock schedule, its serial number and which day the guy who services it takes his break. You will walk past it eleven times so it knows you remember.
Romance is in the air, and you will interrogate it. Somebody holds a door for you and you want to know what they're after. Avoid signing contracts until you've seen the other party's search history. A stranger asks you the time and receives a long look.
After work the machine makes amends, dropping two bags of Funyuns for the price of none. You will refuse them. You will leave them in the slot, untouched, where it can see. A Cancer figures prominently and eats them. Compatibility: low with forgiveness. Keep the grudge; the dollar was never the point. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: turtleneck black.
DO
- Memorize the restock schedule
- Leave the Funyuns in the slot
- Keep the grudge
DON'T
- Accept the Funyuns
- Trust a held door
- Let the machine see you blink
-
Sagittarius
You'll return with a kayak.
Jupiter in your travel house hijacks a dish-soap run, and you'll come home with a kayak and no soap.
With your big-talking ruler Jupiter in your 9th house of distant horizons, squared by secretive Mercury, expect a dish-soap run to keep going past the store toward a Facebook Marketplace seller saying 'priced to move.' You come home with a fourteen-foot kayak and no soap. Saturn retrograde in your 5th means no water, no garage, no rack. Go back for the dish soap.
DO
- Write 'dish soap' on your hand
- Measure the hallway first
- Go back for the soap
DON'T
- Drive past the store
- Message 'is this still available'
- Paddle it down the hallway
With the Moon in Pisces drifting through your 4th house of home, and secretive Mercury in your 12th squaring your ruler Jupiter, any errand you leave the house for today will not be the errand you come back from. Expect to announce you're going out for dish soap. Expect not to mention the Facebook Marketplace tab that's been open since Tuesday.
Your big-talking ruler Jupiter sits with Mars in your 9th house of distant horizons, inflating every itch to leave into a purchase. Be wary of any seller within forty minutes who writes 'priced to move.' You will drive past the store, keep going, and come home with a fourteen-foot kayak strapped to a car that was not built for it, and no dish soap.
Saturn retrograde in your 5th house of fun you can't afford makes sure the fun stays theoretical: no lake nearby, no garage, no roof rack. Expect the kayak to live in the hallway, where it will be stepped around like a sleeping Great Dane. This is not the day to suggest a paddle. Go back out for the dish soap, and come home with only the dish soap.
DO
- Write 'dish soap' on your hand
- Measure the hallway first
- Go back for the soap
DON'T
- Drive past the store
- Message 'is this still available'
- Paddle it down the hallway
Weekly check-in will become daily.
Your manager sends a weekly check-in, you reply that your work 'happens organically,' and now it's daily.
Jupiter roams your travel house, and every exit looks backlit. This morning your manager sends a fifteen-minute check-in that 'Repeats every Tuesday,' and you react like a deer to a fence. You'll reply that your best work happens organically, and by late afternoon it repeats daily. Homework: accept tomorrow's check-in and arrive one minute early, like a polite hostage.
DO
- Click accept, then breathe
- Show up Saturday
- Arrive one minute early
DON'T
- Call your work organic
- Quote Kerouac out of context
- Answer Saturday with 'probably!'
Today's material is Jupiter, your ruler, roaming your house of travel, which makes every exit look backlit. This morning your manager sends a calendar invite for a fifteen-minute check-in, and underneath, in small gray letters: 'Repeats every Tuesday.' Your body will respond the way a deer responds to a fence. Instead of clicking accept, you'll write back that your best work 'happens organically.' By late afternoon the invite will say 'Repeats daily.'
After work you'll vent to the group chat about the tyranny of the calendar, citing a Kerouac line you've never read in context. A friend will ask if you're still coming Saturday, to the thing you RSVP'd to in July. You'll answer 'probably!' with an exclamation point, which everyone in that chat has learned to translate as no.
Late tonight, to regulate, you'll price one-way flights to Lisbon. You won't book. The tell is how long you'll stare at the box marked 'return date' before closing the tab, like it might bite. What we're avoiding is that freedom, for you, is mostly a way of not being expected anywhere. Homework: accept tomorrow's daily check-in and arrive one minute early, like a hostage being polite.
DO
- Click accept, then breathe
- Show up Saturday
- Arrive one minute early
DON'T
- Call your work organic
- Quote Kerouac out of context
- Answer Saturday with 'probably!'
Somebody will schedule your 'sometime.'
You'll tell an acquaintance 'we should hike sometime,' and by lunch they'll send a fourteen-mile Saturday calendar invite.
An acquaintance appears at the gas station this morning, and you say 'we should go hiking sometime,' meaning nothing, as usual. By lunch they've sent a calendar invite: fourteen miles, Saturday, a start before sunrise, and a group chat called Sometime Is Saturday. Late tonight the carpool spreadsheet puts you in the driver column. Never say sometime again.
DO
- Check the driver column
- Pack for fourteen miles
- Answer the group chat
DON'T
- Say sometime at the gas station
- Draft 'something came up'
- Suggest a camping trip next
A casual acquaintance appears at the gas station this morning. You will say 'we should go hiking sometime.' You will mean nothing by it. You never do. By lunch they send a calendar invite: fourteen miles, Saturday, a start time before sunrise, a parking pass, a packing list and a group chat called Sometime Is Saturday.
An unexpected windfall: a refund for a gym membership you forgot you started. You will spend it on a passport photo for no particular trip. At work somebody asks where you've been all week. You were at your desk. Nobody could tell. A dog at the park picks you, and you back away slowly.
Late tonight the group chat posts a carpool spreadsheet with you in the driver column. You will begin drafting 'something came up.' Nothing has come up. A Capricorn figures prominently and has already packed. Compatibility: low with the word Saturday. Never say sometime again. Lucky number: 14. Lucky color: trailhead-porta-potty green.
DO
- Check the driver column
- Pack for fourteen miles
- Answer the group chat
DON'T
- Say sometime at the gas station
- Draft 'something came up'
- Suggest a camping trip next
-
Capricorn
You'll draft your retirement toast.
Saturn retrograde in your 4th has you drafting a retirement toast for a party forty years away, thanking nobody.
With your ruler Saturn retrograde in your 4th house of the past, you spend today looking back on a career with forty years left in it. Expect to open a file called Retirement Remarks over lunch, and Mars trine Saturn has it on a third draft by evening. It thanks nobody, because you did it all yourself. Save it in three places and get back to work.
DO
- Name the file properly
- Save it in three places
- Thank the stapler
DON'T
- Read it aloud at dinner
- Thank anyone by name
- Book the conference room for 2066
With your hall-monitor ruler Saturn retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home and the past, you'll spend today looking back on a career that has decades left to run. Expect, sometime around lunch, to open a document titled Retirement Remarks and start drafting the toast for a party roughly forty years out. Mars trine Saturn makes the work go smoothly, which is the problem: by evening it's on its third draft and has a font.
Mercury and retrograde Venus sit in your 11th house of friends and hopes, and the hope, apparently, is a sheet cake in a conference room. Be wary of the acknowledgments. Expect to thank nobody by name, because you did it all yourself, and then, in a rare moment of softness, add a line for the stapler.
Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of endings and other people's money push the speech toward legacy, and this is not the day to read any of it aloud, least of all to a friend who asks what you do for fun. Save it in three places and get back to work; you've got forty years to go.
DO
- Name the file properly
- Save it in three places
- Thank the stapler
DON'T
- Read it aloud at dinner
- Thank anyone by name
- Book the conference room for 2066
You'll answer love with feedback.
A sibling texts that they're proud of you, and you reply with three bullet points about their résumé.
With the Moon in your siblings house, the soft stuff gets in. Early, a sibling texts 'just wanted to say I'm proud of you,' with no ask attached. You'll reply 'Thanks. Quick thoughts on your résumé,' plus three bullets, then file the compliment at work in Q4 Misc, next to your W-2. Homework: text 'thank you,' nothing after it, and leave it unfinished.
DO
- Read the text twice
- Say thank you, period
- Delete the bullet points
DON'T
- File it under Q4 Misc
- Send résumé notes
- Circle back on love
Today's material is the Moon passing through your house of siblings, which is where the soft stuff gets in. Early this morning, a sibling will text you, unprompted: 'just wanted to say I'm proud of you.' No request attached. No ask. Notice the panic, and notice what you do with it: within minutes you'll reply 'Thanks. Quick thoughts on your résumé,' followed by three bullet points.
At work you'll screenshot the compliment and file it in a folder called Q4 Misc, between your W-2 and a receipt for printer toner. You'll open the folder twice before lunch to make sure it's still there, the way other people check on a sleeping baby.
By tonight your sibling won't have replied, because nobody replies to bullet points about their résumé. You'll send 'circling back on the above,' then lie awake running the numbers on whether love is a recurring expense. What we're avoiding is that some things don't come with a deliverable. Homework: text 'thank you' with nothing after it, no attachment, no agenda, and let it sit there unfinished.
DO
- Read the text twice
- Say thank you, period
- Delete the bullet points
DON'T
- File it under Q4 Misc
- Send résumé notes
- Circle back on love
Date will request the minutes.
You'll bring a printed agenda to tonight's date, and your date will request the minutes before the check arrives.
Romance is in the air, and you bring an agenda to tonight's date: printed, stapled, item four is dessert, time permitting. You run it so efficiently it ends early, under budget, with action items, and your date asks for the minutes before the check arrives. A friend asks how it went and receives a one-page summary. Send the minutes by end of day.
DO
- Staple the agenda
- Send the minutes
- Assign the action items
DON'T
- Skip to item four
- Enter the break room
- Ask for a performance review
Romance is in the air, and you will bring an agenda. Printed. Stapled. Item one: introductions. Item four: dessert, time permitting. There will be a slide. You will run tonight's date so efficiently that it ends early, under budget and with action items. Your date will request the minutes before the check arrives.
At work, an unexpected windfall: a meeting gets canceled. You will schedule a meeting about the canceled meeting. A coworker says 'happy Thursday,' and you ask what it's tracking against. Avoid the break room; somebody in there is relaxing and it's contagious.
Money matters come to a head when the waiter brings a dessert menu and you table it until Q1. A friend texts 'how'd it go?' and receives a one-page summary. An Aries figures prominently and wants to skip to item four. Compatibility: high with whoever takes notes. Send the minutes by end of day. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: manila-folder tan.
DO
- Staple the agenda
- Send the minutes
- Assign the action items
DON'T
- Skip to item four
- Enter the break room
- Ask for a performance review
-
Aquarius
Newsletter's one subscriber will leave.
Uranus retrograde revives your newsletter, you'll write four thousand words on 2009, and your one subscriber unsubscribes.
With your contrarian ruler Uranus retrograde in your 5th house of creative projects, the newsletter crawls back: expect four thousand words after work on why the internet peaked in 2009, footnotes included. Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house of open enemies embolden your one subscriber, and late tonight they unsubscribe, reason given: 'too long.' Publish the next issue to nobody.
DO
- Add one more footnote
- Pull-quote yourself
- Publish the next issue anyway
DON'T
- Check the subscriber count
- Reply to the unsubscribe notice
- Subscribe to yourself under a fake name
With your contrarian ruler Uranus retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of creative projects, trining Pluto in your own sign, an old idea you were ahead of the curve on comes crawling back today. Expect it to be the newsletter. Expect to dust it off after work and write four thousand words on why the internet peaked in 2009, with footnotes, a manifesto section and a pull quote from yourself.
Mercury and retrograde Venus in your 10th house of public reputation convince you this is the issue that finally gets you noticed. Be wary of the subscriber count. It is one. It has been one since launch, and nobody has ever told you who it is.
Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house of partners and open enemies make that one reader bolder than usual. Expect the notification late tonight, 'Someone has unsubscribed,' with the reason box filled in: 'too long.' Pluto in your 1st house could transform you into a person who takes that note. It won't. Publish the next issue to nobody.
DO
- Add one more footnote
- Pull-quote yourself
- Publish the next issue anyway
DON'T
- Check the subscriber count
- Reply to the unsubscribe notice
- Subscribe to yourself under a fake name
Neighbor's loveseat will get bylaws.
A neighbor asks you to help carry a loveseat upstairs, and you set it down to draft bylaws.
Pluto sits in your sign: great with systems, terrible with one human. This afternoon a neighbor asks for help carrying a loveseat up one flight, no cause, no hashtag. By the landing you've set your end down to draft a building-wide mutual aid network with bylaws, and the neighbor's teenage kid carries it up without you. Homework: ask one person how they are and hear the whole answer.
DO
- Lift with your actual arms
- Carry it the whole flight
- Hear one whole answer
DON'T
- Set your end down
- Propose a rotating chair
- Draft Article Two on the landing
Today's material is Pluto, parked in your sign, which is very good at systems and very bad at a single human standing in front of you. This afternoon a neighbor will knock and ask if you could help carry a loveseat up one flight of stairs. One person. One loveseat. No cause, no petition, no hashtag. Notice how exposed that makes you feel.
You'll grab one end, and somewhere around the landing your detachment will kick in disguised as vision. You'll set your end down to take notes, and you'll spend the rest of the workday on a building-wide mutual aid network: shared spreadsheet, rotating chair, draft bylaws. The neighbor will still be holding the other end.
Tonight you'll post about the importance of community and get eleven likes, including one from the neighbor's teenage kid, who carried the loveseat up in ninety seconds while you were drafting Article Two. What we're avoiding is that people are harder than humanity. Homework: tomorrow, knock on one door, ask the person behind it how they are, and listen to the entire answer without proposing a structure.
DO
- Lift with your actual arms
- Carry it the whole flight
- Hear one whole answer
DON'T
- Set your end down
- Propose a rotating chair
- Draft Article Two on the landing
Ghost will leave your séance.
At tonight's Halloween party, you'll ask a Ouija ghost about afterlife governance, and it'll spell B-Y-E.
A friend's early Halloween party figures prominently tonight. The Ouija planchette spells H-I, and you ask the spirit whether the afterlife is decentralized, whether the dead were consulted, and whether it has heard of mutual aid. The planchette spells B-Y-E. The ghost leaves your séance before the guests do, which is saying something. Ask the ghost one thing. One.
DO
- Ask the ghost one thing
- Say hi back
- Let the Leo go next
DON'T
- Explain mutual aid to the dead
- Hand the stranger a reading list
- Unionize the spirit world
A friend's early Halloween party figures prominently tonight. Somebody brings out a Ouija board, and the planchette spells H-I. You will ask the spirit whether the afterlife is decentralized, whether the dead were consulted, and whether it has heard of mutual aid. The planchette will spell B-Y-E. The ghost will leave your séance before the guests do, which is saying something.
At work a stranger in the elevator compliments your tote bag and receives a reading list. Avoid the self-checkout; you have a twelve-point position on it. An unexpected windfall: the group chat goes quiet during your thread about the four-day week. You will call that consensus.
Romance is in the air but refuses to go mainstream with you. A Leo figures prominently and asks the ghost about himself. Compatibility: low with the dead, who had exactly one question's worth of patience. Ask the ghost one thing. One. Lucky number: 0. Lucky color: the gray of a ghost who left early.
DO
- Ask the ghost one thing
- Say hi back
- Let the Leo go next
DON'T
- Explain mutual aid to the dead
- Hand the stranger a reading list
- Unionize the spirit world
-
Pisces
Wallet will turn up frozen.
Neptune retrograde in your money house hides your wallet all day, and tonight it turns up behind the frozen peas.
With your lost-and-found ruler Neptune retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, expect your wallet to drift off like it had plans. Mars and Jupiter in your 6th make the search your real job today: the car three times, the couch twice, a coat from March. Saturn retrograde finds it slowly: tonight, behind the frozen peas. Thaw it out and blame Neptune.
DO
- Check the freezer first
- Pat every pocket twice
- Thaw it out slowly
DON'T
- Retrace your steps
- Explain the lighthouse at work
- Microwave the wallet
With the Moon in your own sign and your lost-and-found ruler Neptune retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of possessions, the things you own drift off today like they have somewhere better to be. Expect to reach for your wallet at the register and find a receipt from a place you don't remember visiting. Be wary of retracing your steps; you weren't paying attention to the steps the first time.
Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of the daily grind turn the search into your actual job. Expect to check the car three times, the couch twice and a coat you haven't worn since March. Expect somebody from work to ask where your head is, and with the Moon trining Mercury in your 9th house of far-off places, you'll tell them: a lighthouse, mostly.
Saturn retrograde also sits in your 2nd house, and Saturn returns lost things the slow, humiliating way. Expect the wallet to turn up tonight in the freezer, behind the peas, cold and fully intact. This is not the day to ask how it got there. Thaw it out and blame Neptune.
DO
- Check the freezer first
- Pat every pocket twice
- Thaw it out slowly
DON'T
- Retrace your steps
- Explain the lighthouse at work
- Microwave the wallet
Lighthouse daydream will get curtains.
An urgent email sends you mentally to a Maine lighthouse, and after work you buy it curtains.
The Moon sits 86 percent lit in your sign, turning up every feeling and down every task. Before lunch an email arrives marked urgent, and you leave, mentally, for a lighthouse in Maine. After work you buy curtains at Target for its round window. Tonight you open the email: it wanted you to confirm you got it. Homework: reply 'received,' then return to the lighthouse.
DO
- Open the red exclamation point
- Reply with one word
- Keep the curtain receipt
DON'T
- Name the imaginary cat
- Measure a window you lack
- Forward the email to the lighthouse
Today's material is the Moon, 86 percent lit and sitting in your sign, which turns the volume up on everything you feel and down on everything you're supposed to do. Sometime before lunch an email will arrive marked urgent, with the little red exclamation point. Notice the defense, because it's elegant: you won't open it. You'll leave. Not physically. Mentally, you'll be keeping a lighthouse in Maine.
By afternoon the lighthouse will have a woodstove, a cat with a nautical name, and a kettle you can hear from the lamp room. After work you'll stand in a Target aisle holding curtains, trying to remember the dimensions of a round window you don't have. You'll buy them. They're for later.
Late tonight, under a Moon that is nearly full and very much on your side, you'll finally open the email. It was urgent. It was asking you to confirm you'd received it. What we're avoiding is that most of what you run from is about this size. Homework: reply 'received.' One word. Then you may return to the lighthouse, and the cat.
DO
- Open the red exclamation point
- Reply with one word
- Keep the curtain receipt
DON'T
- Name the imaginary cat
- Measure a window you lack
- Forward the email to the lighthouse
You'll pack for a timeshare.
A spam text says you've won a cruise, and after work you'll roll your suitcase into a timeshare pitch.
An unexpected windfall arrives by text from a number with eleven digits: you've won a cruise. You believe it, pack a sun hat, and tell your boss you'll be at sea, possibly forever. After work the address is a Holiday Inn conference room and a man with a laser pointer selling a timeshare in Branson. You leave with a fruit basket. Unpack the sun hat.
DO
- Unpack the sun hat
- Keep the fruit basket
- Let the Virgo read texts
DON'T
- Reply to eleven-digit numbers
- Tell your boss you're at sea
- Pack a swimsuit for Branson
The Moon is in your sign, which explains nothing. An unexpected windfall arrives by text from a number with eleven digits: you have won a cruise. You will believe this. By lunch you'll have packed a rolling suitcase, a sun hat and a paperback about mermaids.
At work you will tell your boss you'll be at sea, possibly forever. A coworker asks which cruise line. You will say 'the ocean one.' Romance is in the air, and it smells like sunscreen you haven't put on yet.
After work the address leads to a Holiday Inn conference room, a folding table and a man with a laser pointer selling a timeshare in Branson. You will cry, but hopefully. You will leave with a fruit basket and his business card. A Virgo figures prominently and offers to read your texts from now on. Compatibility: high with anyone holding a clipboard. Unpack the sun hat. Lucky number: 11. Lucky color: brochure turquoise.
DO
- Unpack the sun hat
- Keep the fruit basket
- Let the Virgo read texts
DON'T
- Reply to eleven-digit numbers
- Tell your boss you're at sea
- Pack a swimsuit for Branson
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-22 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 29.3° Libra |
|---|---|
| Moon | 15.1° Pisces |
| Mercury | 20.8° Scorpio |
| Venus | 1.6° Scorpio ℞ |
| Mars | 13.8° Leo |
| Jupiter | 23.1° Leo |
| Saturn | 9.9° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 5.0° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.3° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.6° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.8°, easy)
- Venus square Pluto (1.4°, tense)
- Uranus trine Pluto (1.9°, flowing)
- Sun conjunct Venus (2.3°, fused)
- Mercury square Jupiter (2.3°, tense)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Sun square Pluto (3.8°, tense)
- Mars trine Saturn (3.9°, flowing)
- Moon trine Mercury (5.7°, 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 Thursday, October 22, 2026.