FILED FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2026

ROAST-O-SCOPE

Scorpio season
Waxing Gibbous in Pisces
Moon into Aries today
Venus, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune retrograde

The stars don't care about you. Roastie does, in the worst way. Pick a method, pick a dose, find your sign. The sky is computed; the contempt is freshly ground every morning.

THE METHOD

Planets, houses, aspects. Real sky, fake comfort.

THE DOSE

One paragraph. The reading, compressed.

Aries

Mar 21 – Apr 19 · Fire · ruled by Mars
Marshal will black-flag you tonight.

You'll ram a bachelorette's go-kart into the tire wall twice tonight and get black-flagged while the bridesmaids cheer.
Your hot-headed ruler Mars sits in your 5th house of fun with Jupiter and trines Saturn, which hands your temper a rulebook it won't read. Tonight's go-kart track puts you in a heat with a bachelorette party, and you'll treat a woman in a plastic tiara as a blood rival until the marshal waves the black flag and the bridesmaids cheer. Stay in the painted lane.
DO
Accept the go-kart invitation
Wear the helmet that fits
Shake the bride's hand afterward
DON'T
Bump anyone twice
Demand a rematch from the marshal
Treat the tiara as a target
With Saturn retrograde in your 1st house and a retrograde Neptune sitting right next to it, your body spends the morning in a fog with a speed limit. Expect to march into rooms at work with tremendous purpose and no idea why, and resist the urge to blame whoever's standing nearest. This is not the day to sign anything with your initials. Neptune will make them look like somebody else's.

Your hot-headed ruler Mars is in Leo in your 5th house of fun you can't afford, sharing it with swollen Jupiter and trining Saturn, which hands your temper a rulebook it will not read. Expect a Friday-night invitation to an indoor go-kart track. Be wary of the bachelorette party in your heat. You will decide a woman in a plastic tiara is your blood rival, and Mars will help you bump her into the tire wall twice.

By evening the Moon leaves your 12th and crosses into your own sign to join Saturn, which means feelings, which means the track marshal waves a black flag at you while the bridesmaids cheer. Take the ban with whatever dignity Mars left you, which is none. Stay in your lane. The painted one, on the floor, that everybody else can see.
DO
Accept the go-kart invitation
Wear the helmet that fits
Shake the bride's hand afterward
DON'T
Bump anyone twice
Demand a rematch from the marshal
Treat the tiara as a target
Six leftover screws will testify.

You build tonight's dresser without the booklet, the drawers open into the wall, and six leftover screws testify against you.
Saturn retrograde in your first house is today's material, and after work it meets the flat-pack dresser in your hallway. You toss the instruction booklet unread, because a booklet is somebody telling you what to do. By late tonight the drawers open toward the wall and six leftover screws sit on the floor like witnesses. Homework: read page one aloud to the dresser.
DO
Fish the booklet out
Read page one aloud
Count the screws twice
DON'T
Call it a design choice
Hit the drawer with a shoe
Challenge the Allen wrench to a rematch
The material we're working with today is disappointed-dad Saturn, retrograde and parked in your first house like a man in a lawn chair who already knows how this ends. After work, what comes up is the flat-pack dresser that's been leaning in your hallway since August. You open the box, see the instruction booklet, and experience it as somebody telling you what to do. It goes in the recycling, unread.

By the third drawer, the old pattern surfaces. A drawer goes in backwards, and rather than undo a single step, which would register as losing, you hit it with a shoe. Charging through is how you process frustration; we've covered this. The drawer absorbs the shoe and stays backwards. Your knuckles will be fine. Your pride has a much shorter warranty.

Late tonight the Moon slides into Aries and finds you on the hallway floor with six leftover screws, every one of them a witness. You'll want to throw them out and call it efficiency. You'll text a friend a photo and say the drawers face the wall on purpose. Homework: fish the booklet out of the recycling and read page one aloud to the dresser. Use your indoor voice.
DO
Fish the booklet out
Read page one aloud
Count the screws twice
DON'T
Call it a design choice
Hit the drawer with a shoe
Challenge the Allen wrench to a rematch
Farmer will bill per stalk.

You'll sprint straight through tonight's corn maze, and the farmer will invoice you per stalk.
Friends drag you to a corn maze after work, and the Moon slides into your sign later today. You will not solve the maze. You exit through the corn, in a straight line, at full sprint, and a farmer in a John Deere cap invoices you per stalk. Your friends stay inside, lost, yelling your name. Pay the farmer. Use the path like a citizen.
DO
Use the marked path
Pay the farmer in full
Wait for your friends
DON'T
Punch the parking kiosk
Race the door-holder
Argue the corn started it
Money matters come to a head early. You pay for parking by punching the kiosk, and it works, which is the problem. A coworker in a fleece vest says 'per my last email.' Do not tackle him. You will picture it in slow motion.

A group outing beckons. Friends drag you to a corn maze after work, and the Moon slides into your sign later today, which is like handing a toddler a leaf blower. You will not solve the maze. You will exit through the corn, in a straight line, at full sprint, and a farmer in a John Deere cap will invoice you per stalk. Your friends stay inside, lost, yelling your name like a search party in a cereal ad.

Romance is in the air. Somebody attractive holds a door for you, and you race them to the next one. A Libra figures prominently, still deciding whether to follow you into the corn. Pay the farmer, and use the path like a citizen. Lucky number: 312. Lucky color: busted-stalk yellow.
DO
Use the marked path
Pay the farmer in full
Wait for your friends
DON'T
Punch the parking kiosk
Race the door-holder
Argue the corn started it
Taurus

Apr 20 – May 20 · Earth · ruled by Venus
You'll pay to stay home.

Your gym insists you cancel in person, and you choose forty dollars a month forever over an eleven-minute drive.
Backpedaling Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 7th house of contracts and squaring Pluto, so the gym you abandoned years ago announces that cancellation is in person only. Mars and Jupiter in your 4th make the couch a fortress. You'll weigh an eleven-minute drive against forty dollars a month forever, and choose forever. Put on outdoor shoes tonight and feel what you're paying not to do.
DO
Call the gym and lose
Counter-offer your living room
Stand by the door in shoes
DON'T
Read page two of anything
Promise yourself January
Let the couch see the shoes
With backpedaling Venus, your ruler, retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house of contracts, fused to the Sun and squaring Pluto, the fine print in your life wakes up and starts lifting weights. Expect this to be the day you finally try to cancel the gym membership you haven't used since the second Obama term. Expect the gym to tell you, cheerfully, that cancellation happens in person only, at the front desk, during business hours no human body has ever kept.

Mars and Jupiter are both camped in your 4th house of home, and that's where it falls apart. Mars makes the couch a fortress. Jupiter makes the couch enormous. The gym is eleven minutes away. You'll weigh eleven minutes against forty dollars a month, forever, and you'll choose forever. Be wary of the friend who texts about Friday drinks; the Moon in your 11th wants you out of the house, and you'll counter-offer your living room and a bag of Tostitos.

Saturn retrograde in your 12th house of hidden costs quietly adds up the damage, and the number has a comma in it. This is not the day to pretend you're going back in January. Put on outdoor shoes once tonight, stand by the door, and feel what you're paying not to do.
DO
Call the gym and lose
Counter-offer your living room
Stand by the door in shoes
DON'T
Read page two of anything
Promise yourself January
Let the couch see the shoes
You'll repossess the pen mid-signature.

A coworker borrows your good pen for a sec, and by late afternoon you repossess it mid-signature.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde and squaring Pluto, so today you form an attachment to an object and call it a value. A coworker borrows your good pen for a sec, and you track it all afternoon like weather. Late in the day you lift it out of their hand mid-signature. Homework: lend a pen you don't care about to someone you do, and don't watch it go.
DO
Lend the cheap pen
Say 'can I have it back'
Let the chewed cap go
DON'T
Follow the pen into meetings
Call it a principle
Inspect the cap for teeth marks
Today's material is grabby, backward-walking Venus, your ruler, retrograde in your partnership house and squaring Pluto, which is the clinical way of saying you'll form an attachment to an object and call it a value. At work, somebody from the next desk borrows your good pen for a sec. Your mouth says 'of course.' Your body, which has been keeping score since kindergarten, does not.

For the rest of the afternoon you track that pen the way other people track a hurricane. It goes into a meeting without you. It comes back in a different pocket. Somebody chews the cap, and you experience this as infidelity. What you won't do is say 'can I have my pen back,' because asking would mean admitting a ballpoint is your transitional object.

Late in the day it surfaces anyway. You walk over while the coworker is signing an actual document and lift the pen out of their hand, and the signature ends in a long line off the page. Tonight you'll tell a friend this was about principle. Homework: lend a pen you don't care about to someone you do, and don't follow it with your eyes.
DO
Lend the cheap pen
Say 'can I have it back'
Let the chewed cap go
DON'T
Follow the pen into meetings
Call it a principle
Inspect the cap for teeth marks
Sample lady will deputize you.

You'll camp at Costco's meatball sample cart this afternoon until the sample lady ties her apron on you and quits.
Sometime this afternoon you walk into Costco for paper towels and plant yourself at the meatball sample cart like a boulder in a creek. Shoppers flow around you. A manager radios about you. By the end of her shift, the sample lady ties her apron on you and walks out forever. You go home in a hairnet with no paper towels. Guard the cart. It's yours now.
DO
Buy the paper towels first
Hold your spot at the cart
Wear the hairnet with pride
DON'T
Help rearrange the furniture
Get up for the moth
Tell them you don't work there
A home matter demands attention. Somebody in your household suggests rearranging the furniture 'for fun,' and you lie face-down on the rug until the idea passes. An unexpected guest arrives. It's a moth. It stays, because you will not get up to open the window.

A windfall of free food is coming. Sometime this afternoon you walk into Costco for paper towels and plant yourself at the meatball sample cart like a boulder in a creek. Shoppers flow around you. Carts reroute. A manager radios about you. By the end of her shift, the sample lady ties her apron on you, points at the toothpick jar, and walks out forever. You go home in a hairnet with no paper towels.

Romance is in the air, and it smells like meatballs. A Gemini asks if you still work there. Say yes. Compatibility: high with anyone holding a tray. Guard the cart until the last meatball, then guard the toothpicks. Lucky number: 41. Lucky color: hairnet beige.
DO
Buy the paper towels first
Hold your spot at the cart
Wear the hairnet with pride
DON'T
Help rearrange the furniture
Get up for the moth
Tell them you don't work there
Gemini

May 21 – Jun 20 · Air · ruled by Mercury
Sibling will publish your bangs.

A sibling posts your side-bang era to the family chat, and by afternoon your aunt makes it her profile picture.
Reckless Uranus, retrograde in your 1st, drags an old version of you out of the archive, and Mars and Jupiter in your 3rd house of siblings hand it a megaphone. Expect a sibling to post your side-bang, studded-belt era in the family chat before lunch, and your aunt to make it her profile picture by afternoon. Don't retaliate. Leave the bangs in 2009, where they died.
DO
Admit the eyeliner was a choice
Mute the family chat
Compliment your aunt's new picture
DON'T
Claim it's the other you
Post their prom photo
Defend yourself with Fall Out Boy lyrics
With reckless Uranus retrograde in your 1st house, a former version of you crawls back out of the archive, and Mars and Jupiter in your 3rd house of siblings hand it a megaphone. Expect a sibling to find a photo from your side-bang era before lunch: the eyeliner, the studded belt, the face of somebody who once put Fall Out Boy lyrics in an away message. Expect it in the family group chat by lunch.

Mercury, your ruler, is in your 6th house of the daily grind and squaring Jupiter, which means you'll overexplain at work. Be wary of the reflex to tell a coworker the photo is technically the other one of you. They'll ask which one. You'll answer with both, at length, in the break room. By afternoon your aunt makes the photo her profile picture, and Jupiter makes sure she captions it.

Saturn sits in your 11th house of friends, so the photo travels slowly and lasts forever. Resist the urge to retaliate with a sibling's prom picture; the Moon moves into that same house tonight, and they have more on you than you have on them. Leave the bangs in 2009, where they died.
DO
Admit the eyeliner was a choice
Mute the family chat
Compliment your aunt's new picture
DON'T
Claim it's the other you
Post their prom photo
Defend yourself with Fall Out Boy lyrics
You'll test as two types.

At today's personality workshop you test as two opposite types, and the facilitator makes you report out for both tables.
With Uranus retrograde in your sign and Mercury working your house of routine, today's personality workshop at work returns a careful introvert before lunch and a party-planning extrovert after. You narrate the discrepancy to anyone near the wrap platter, a different version for each, and the facilitator makes you report out for both tables. Homework: pick one result and keep it until Monday.
DO
Pick one result
Write it on your hand
Sit at one table
DON'T
Retake the test
Brief accounting on the discrepancy
Request a third table
Today's material is Uranus, retrograde in your sign, and Mercury, your ruler, working the day shift in your house of routine. At work there's a personality workshop: a forty-question test, a facilitator in a lanyard, a catered wrap platter. Before lunch you test as a careful, quiet introvert. After lunch you retake it, because the first result felt like a cage, and test as a party-planning extrovert.

Notice what you do with the discrepancy. You don't sit with it; you narrate it, to the facilitator, to the wrap platter, to a man from accounting who did not ask, and each one gets a slightly different version, which is the finding. The facilitator, who is paid to be delighted, is delighted. She seats you at both tables and asks you to report out for each.

Late tonight you'll text somebody you're seeing to ask which of your results they'd rather date, and they'll answer 'whichever one texts back.' It will land like a diagnosis, because it is one. Homework: pick one result and commit to it until Monday. Write the four letters on your hand. Don't retake the test a third time to break the tie.
DO
Pick one result
Write it on your hand
Sit at one table
DON'T
Retake the test
Brief accounting on the discrepancy
Request a third table
They'll read your second signature.

You sign the retirement card twice, once warm and once 'finally, lol,' and somebody reads both aloud.
The retirement card for a guy from accounting lands on your desk this morning, and you sign it twice, in two handwritings: 'Enjoy every minute, you earned it!' and, smaller, 'finally, lol.' After lunch somebody reads it aloud over the cookie cake. Both messages. Seven people look at you. Sign everything once, and leave the second handwriting at home.
DO
Sign the card once
Use one handwriting today
Leave before the cookie cake
DON'T
Write 'lol' anywhere official
Answer from two phones
Blame the other you
A document circulates at work. The retirement card for a guy from accounting lands on your desk this morning, and you sign it twice, in two handwritings: 'Enjoy every minute, you earned it!' and, smaller, 'finally, lol.' After lunch somebody reads the card aloud over the grocery-store cookie cake. They read both. The retiree asks which one of you is 'lol.' Seven people look at you. You look at you too.

A friend texts 'can I ask you something.' You answer from two phones, with two different alibis, and both get read receipts. A rumor you started Wednesday comes home to roost, and it has grown a mustache and a middle name.

A sibling figures prominently, on speaker, with Mom listening. They call for your side of the family argument, and you give them both. Expect a long call. Compatibility: high with yourself, low with yourself. Sign everything once, and leave the second handwriting at home. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: Wite-Out.
DO
Sign the card once
Use one handwriting today
Leave before the cookie cake
DON'T
Write 'lol' anywhere official
Answer from two phones
Blame the other you
Cancer

Jun 21 – Jul 22 · Water · ruled by Moon
You'll hug the wrong grandmother.

At airport arrivals you weep through four strangers' reunions and walk straight into the wrong grandmother's hug.
Your tide-yanking ruler the Moon sits fused to Neptune in your 9th house of travel, dissolving the wall between you and every stranger at the airport. Pick up a coworker from arrivals this afternoon and expect to weep through four reunions that aren't yours, then step into the open arms of a grandmother who was waiting for somebody behind you. Hug only the person you came for.
DO
Offer the airport ride
Pack tissues for arrivals
Check faces before hugging
DON'T
Stay for three more flights
Read the parking receipt
Ride home with her family
Your tide-yanking ruler the Moon is in Pisces in your 9th house of travel, fused to Neptune, which dissolves the thin wall between you and every stranger in an airport. Expect to give somebody from work a ride from arrivals this afternoon, and be wary of the arrivals hall itself: the balloons, the homecomings, the toddler holding a handmade sign upside down. You'll be gone by the second hug.

Mars and Jupiter in your 2nd house of money make sure it costs you. You won't leave when your coworker lands. You'll stay for three more flights out of solidarity with people you've never met, and short-term parking will bill you like a hotel. This is not the day to read the receipt. Jupiter wrote it.

Venus, retrograde beside the Sun in your 5th house of romance, sends your affection backward and in the wrong direction. Somewhere in that crowd a small, perfumed grandmother opens her arms to someone standing behind you, and you'll step into them like it's Thanksgiving. Hug only the person you came for.
DO
Offer the airport ride
Pack tissues for arrivals
Check faces before hugging
DON'T
Stay for three more flights
Read the parking receipt
Ride home with her family
They'll have fun without you.

You cancel tonight's dinner to protect your energy, and the photos prove they had fun without you.
Your ruler, the Moon, sits nearly full on Neptune today, and every boundary turns to fog. This afternoon you cancel the friends' Friday dinner to protect your energy; tonight, in the good sweatpants, the photos arrive, and you draft 'looks fun!!' with the punctuation doing the crying. You withdrew so nobody could leave you out. Homework: reply with one heart, not the one with the tear.
DO
Send exactly one heart
Close the app
Go to bed
DON'T
Draft 'looks fun!!'
Reread 'no worries' for subtext
Zoom in to see who took your chair
The material today is your ruler, the nearly full and extremely damp Moon, sitting in Pisces right on top of Neptune, which turns every feeling up and every boundary into fog. Sometime this afternoon, the friends' Friday dinner you agreed to three weeks ago starts to feel like an exam. You cancel, citing your energy. They text back 'no worries.' File that; it comes back later.

Tonight you put on the good sweatpants and the comfort show, and somewhere around the second episode the shell stops feeling like protection and starts feeling like a room. Mercury and Venus are in your house of fun, which means fun is happening, just not at your address. Then the first photo goes up: the table, the candle, a dessert you would have ordered.

Here's the pattern. You withdraw so nobody can leave you out, then feel left out of the thing you withdrew from, and late tonight you draft 'looks fun!!' with the punctuation doing the crying. Nobody did anything. They had fun without you, which is what you told them to do. Homework: reply with one heart, not the one with the tear, and go to bed.
DO
Send exactly one heart
Close the app
Go to bed
DON'T
Draft 'looks fun!!'
Reread 'no worries' for subtext
Zoom in to see who took your chair
You'll sob through three rinses.

You'll sob through three rounds of the car wash after work, and the booth kid will stop charging you.
After work you pull into the automatic car wash and, sealed behind the soap curtain, sob like the last ten minutes of a dog movie. One cycle won't cover it. You buy the Ultimate Lava Shine three times while the teenager in the booth waves you through for free, because he has seen this before. Keep the windows up. Let the brushes do the work.
DO
Keep the windows up
Spring for the Lava Shine
Tip the booth kid
DON'T
Open the junk drawer
Take the Leo's call
Roll the window down mid-rinse
Home is where the heart is, and today the heart is on the kitchen floor. You find a birthday card from 2011 in the junk drawer and need to lie down near it. A neighbor waves. You wave back so hard it counts as a hug.

Big feelings arrive by car. After work you pull into the automatic car wash and, sealed behind the soap curtain, sob like the last ten minutes of a dog movie. One cycle won't cover it. You buy the Ultimate Lava Shine, then again, then a third time, while the teenager in the booth waves you through for free, because he has seen this before, just never from a car this clean.

Friends seek your counsel. A Leo calls to talk about themselves for an hour, and you cry on their behalf. Compatibility: high with the kid in the booth. Keep the windows up and let the brushes do the work. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: Lava Shine pink.
DO
Keep the windows up
Spring for the Lava Shine
Tip the booth kid
DON'T
Open the junk drawer
Take the Leo's call
Roll the window down mid-rinse
Leo

Jul 23 – Aug 22 · Fire · ruled by Sun
Mother's fridge will demote you.

Your mother's fridge swaps your honor roll for a cousin's ultrasound, and you overnight her a framed headshot.
Your spotlight-hogging ruler the Sun enters your 4th house of home and mother fused to Venus retrograde, and your honor roll certificate comes off her refrigerator to make room for a cousin's ultrasound. With Mars and Jupiter in your 1st, you'll overnight her a framed headshot with an industrial magnet. Pluto makes sure your partner won't side with you tonight. Let the smudge have the fridge.
DO
Smile at the ultrasound
Keep the note under four pages
Let your partner be wrong quietly
DON'T
Call it barely a baby
Order a stronger magnet
Ask the smudge about its accomplishments
Your spotlight-hogging ruler the Sun has just entered Scorpio in your 4th house of home and your mother, fused to Venus retrograde, which drags attention backward into the family kitchen. Expect to find out your mother's refrigerator has been redecorated. The honor roll certificate that hung there for decades is gone. In its place is a cousin's baby's ultrasound, a gray smudge that hasn't done shit yet.

Mars and Jupiter are both in your 1st house, and Mercury is squaring Jupiter, so your response will be proportionate to nothing. Expect to spend your lunch break ordering a framed 8x10 headshot, glossy, with a magnet strong enough to lift a car, overnighted to her door. Be wary of including a note. Jupiter will make it four pages, and Mercury will make it read like a ransom letter.

The Sun also squares Pluto in your 7th house of partners, so the person you complain to tonight won't take your side. They'll say it's a baby. You'll say it's barely a baby yet. This is not a fight you win. Let the smudge have the fridge.
DO
Smile at the ultrasound
Keep the note under four pages
Let your partner be wrong quietly
DON'T
Call it barely a baby
Order a stronger magnet
Ask the smudge about its accomplishments
Shark will enter your anecdote.

A quiet coworker gets a big laugh at Friday drinks, and by the third round your story acquires a shark.
Mars and Jupiter in your first house, with Mercury squaring Jupiter, make every story come out twenty percent larger. At Friday drinks a quiet coworker gets the table's biggest laugh with a returned rotisserie chicken, and by the third round your story has a valet, a minor royal and a shark. The shark is the defense; the chicken is the wound. Homework: ask for the chicken story again Monday, and just laugh.
DO
Laugh at the chicken story
Stop at one true story
Request the encore Monday
DON'T
Add a valet
Mention the minor royal
Bring a shark to happy hour
Material today: Mars and Jupiter both in your first house, with Mercury squaring Jupiter, which is a clinical way of saying everything you say comes out twenty percent larger than it happened. At Friday drinks after work, a quiet coworker tells a short, dry story about returning a rotisserie chicken, and the table laughs harder than it has laughed at you all month.

Notice what comes up. Not envy, you'll say, just a need to add to the conversation. Your first story is true and fine. Your second has a valet in it who wasn't there. By the third round there's a yacht, a minor royal and a shark, and the table is drifting back to the chicken. The shark is the defense. The chicken is the wound.

Late tonight you'll lie awake rewriting the rotisserie story so it happened to you. That's the inner child asking whether it's still the main character. It is. It's just not the only one, and it never was. Homework: on Monday, ask the quiet coworker to tell the chicken story again, and laugh at it without following up with one of your own.
DO
Laugh at the chicken story
Stop at one true story
Request the encore Monday
DON'T
Add a valet
Mention the minor royal
Bring a shark to happy hour
Nobody will guess your costume.

You'll go to tonight's Halloween party dressed as yourself, and every guest will guess 'local realtor.'
Tonight's early Halloween party gets the costume that took you three weeks: you, as yourself, but more. Bigger hair. A sash. Nobody guesses it. A woman in cat ears guesses 'local realtor.' A man dressed as a traffic cone guesses 'mattress commercial.' Best Costume goes to a bedsheet with two eyeholes. Answer to 'realtor' and hand out a card.
DO
Answer to 'realtor'
Hand out a business card
Clap for the bedsheet ghost
DON'T
Explain the costume twice
Print the forty headshots
Demand a recount from the host
Romance is in the air, and it's aimed at a mirror. Somebody compliments your jacket, and you thank them on behalf of the jacket and yourself. An admirer is closer than you think: it's your reflection in the microwave door, and it's into you. A stranger finally takes your picture. It's a Ring doorbell.

A social triumph awaits. Tonight's early Halloween party gets the costume that took you three weeks: you, as yourself, but more. Bigger hair. A sash. Nobody guesses it. A woman in cat ears guesses 'local realtor.' A man dressed as a traffic cone guesses 'guy from a mattress commercial.' Best Costume goes to a Virgo in a bedsheet with two eyeholes, who didn't even want it.

Money matters loom. You print forty glossy headshots for a party where nobody asked for a headliner. A Scorpio asks for your number. It's for a closing. Compatibility: high with ring lights. Answer to 'realtor' and hand out a card. Lucky number: 0. Lucky color: open-house gold.
DO
Answer to 'realtor'
Hand out a business card
Clap for the bedsheet ghost
DON'T
Explain the costume twice
Print the forty headshots
Demand a recount from the host
Virgo

Aug 23 – Sep 22 · Earth · ruled by Mercury
Partner will open the drawer.

Somebody you love opens your one chaos drawer, finds eleven soy sauce packets, and learns you're human.
Fussy Mercury, your ruler, squares Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, and the secret is a kitchen drawer: dead batteries, eleven soy sauce packets, a key to nothing. With the Moon in your 7th, somebody you love goes looking for scissors and finds it. Don't text a sibling six hundred words about the system. Do not label the drawer tonight.
DO
Hand them the scissors first
Let them laugh
Keep the key to nothing
DON'T
Claim the drawer has a system
Text a sibling your defense
Label it staging area
With fussy Mercury, your ruler, in Scorpio in your 3rd house of texting and squaring Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, the one thing you've hidden gets bigger and the mouth around it gets looser. You know the thing. The kitchen drawer. The only uncategorized square foot of your life, home to dead batteries, eleven soy sauce packets, one birthday candle and a key to nothing.

The Moon is in Pisces in your 7th house of partners, and partners open drawers. Expect somebody you live with or love to go looking for scissors and find it. Expect them to call you over in a tone of real joy. Mars, also lurking in your 12th, will make you blush from the collarbone up. Resist the urge to say it has a system. It does not have a system. They know now.

Mercury in your 3rd turns the panic into texts, so be wary of sending a sibling six hundred words on why the drawer is a staging area. Saturn retrograde in your 8th means the drawer outlives this conversation and every one after it. Do not label the drawer tonight.
DO
Hand them the scissors first
Let them laugh
Keep the key to nothing
DON'T
Claim the drawer has a system
Text a sibling your defense
Label it staging area
You'll get the compliment revoked.

Your boss praises your report, and you list three flaws she hadn't noticed until she takes it back.
Mars and Jupiter are camped in your twelfth house, where you keep the inner critic and feed it. At work your boss calls your report excellent, and before she can leave you mention the font on page four, then the chart axis, then the footnote, until 'excellent' has been revised to 'fine.' Homework: next compliment, say 'thank you,' close your mouth, count to five.
DO
Say thank you
Count to five
Let page four live
DON'T
Mention the font
Explain the chart axis
Give guided tours of the scuff
The material we're working with today is Mars and Jupiter, both camped in your twelfth house, the basement of the chart, where you keep the inner critic and feed it three meals a day. At work, your boss stops by to say the report you turned in was excellent. Watch what happens. You thank her, and then, before she can leave, you mention the font on page four.

She hadn't noticed the font. Now she has. You add the chart axis that starts at four instead of zero, then the footnote you moved, and she starts holding the report the way people hold a takeout container they've begun to suspect. By the time she walks away, 'excellent' has been revised to 'fine.' You call this honesty. It's a pre-emptive strike: find the flaw first and nobody else gets to.

After work a friend says your place looks great, and you show her the scuff behind the bathroom door. Pattern confirmed. By tonight two people think less of your work than they did this morning, and both got there on your guided tour. Homework: the next time somebody compliments you, say 'thank you,' close your mouth, and count to five before inspecting anything.
DO
Say thank you
Count to five
Let page four live
DON'T
Mention the font
Explain the chart axis
Give guided tours of the scuff
You'll edit the lost-cat flyer.

You'll red-pen a lost-cat flyer this morning, and the owner calls to complain while her cat naps on your porch.
This morning you pass a lost-cat flyer, spot 'it's' where 'its' belongs, and fix it with the red pen you carry for exactly this. Then the font. Then the phone number's spacing. By lunch the owner calls to ask who defaced her cat, while the cat sleeps on your porch judging your penmanship. Return the cat. Leave the flyer alone.
DO
Return the cat today
Eyeball it just once
Forgive one typo tonight
DON'T
Fix the phone number spacing
Correct 'irregardless' out loud
Send the cat back annotated
A neighborhood mystery unfolds. This morning you pass a lost-cat flyer on a telephone pole, spot 'it's' where 'its' belongs, and fix it with the red pen you carry for exactly this. Then the font. Then the spacing in the phone number. By lunch you've rewritten the whole flyer, and the owner calls to ask who defaced her cat. The cat is asleep on your porch, judging your penmanship.

A workplace opportunity presents itself. Your boss says 'just eyeball it.' You won't. An exciting new project lands on your desk: a spreadsheet somebody built in Comic Sans. You'll survive. Barely. Somebody says 'irregardless' in a meeting, and you need a minute in the stairwell.

Romance is in the air. A date sends a sweet text with a typo, and you love them anyway, in tracked changes. An old friend texts 'your' when they mean 'you're,' and the friendship enters a probationary period. Compatibility: high with the cat. Return the cat, and leave the flyer alone. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: correction-fluid white.
DO
Return the cat today
Eyeball it just once
Forgive one typo tonight
DON'T
Fix the phone number spacing
Correct 'irregardless' out loud
Send the cat back annotated
Libra

Sep 23 – Oct 22 · Air · ruled by Venus
Trivia team will impeach you.

Named trivia captain tonight, you write both final answers on one slip, and your own team impeaches you.
Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends make you trivia captain tonight, and Saturn retrograde in your 7th house of open enemies turns your own team against you. At the final question you'll write both answers on one slip, one on top of the other, and they'll impeach you by show of hands before the scores post. Pick one answer. Write it in pen.
DO
Accept the captaincy humbly
Use the expiring dessert coupon
Pick one answer in pen
DON'T
Write both answers
Make the pleading face
Abstain from your own impeachment
The Sun has just packed up and left your sign for your 2nd house of money, and backsliding Venus, your ruler, is retrograde right beside it, so birthday season is officially over and the free-dessert coupons in your wallet are expiring. Expect to pay full price for something today and take it personally. Be wary of Venus square Pluto turning a seven-dollar candle into a referendum on your worth.

Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends inflate your standing in the group, and tonight that's a problem. Expect to be named captain at bar trivia. Expect the final question, double or nothing, two plausible answers, one golf pencil. Resist the urge to write both on the slip, small, one on top of the other, and slide it to the host with your pleading face. The host does not accept a Venn diagram.

Saturn retrograde in your 7th house of partners and open enemies turns your own teammates into the opposition. Before scores post, they'll vote you out of the captaincy by show of hands, and you'll abstain. Pick one answer. Write it in pen.
DO
Accept the captaincy humbly
Use the expiring dessert coupon
Pick one answer in pen
DON'T
Write both answers
Make the pleading face
Abstain from your own impeachment
Friend will tattoo your politeness.

A friend sends her wolf-and-compass tattoo design, you text 'it's so you,' and she books the appointment.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of self-worth, where you keep the belief your opinion isn't worth the trouble. This afternoon a friend sends a tattoo design: a wolf, a compass, a quote that's probably misattributed. You type 'hmm,' delete it, send 'it's so you,' and she books the appointment. Permanent ink, temporary discomfort. Homework: tell one houseplant one true opinion, without apologizing.
DO
Mention the font
Ask who said the quote
Tell a houseplant the truth
DON'T
Text 'it's so you'
Offer to hold her hand
Suggest you get matching wolves
Today's material is Venus, your ruler, retrograde and fused to the Sun in your house of self-worth, which is where you keep the belief that your real opinion costs more than it's worth to say. This afternoon a friend texts you the tattoo design she's pretty sure about: a wolf, a compass, and a quote that's almost certainly misattributed, in a font that should have stayed a font.

What comes up is the fawn response, which you'll experience as kindness. You type 'hmm,' delete it, type 'it's so you,' and send it, because disagreement feels like a door slamming. She books the appointment while you're still enjoying the relief. You've just had your politeness tattooed onto someone else's forearm. The ink is permanent. Your discomfort was going to last an hour.

Late tonight, Saturn retrograde in your partnership house will keep you up rehearsing the honest version to the ceiling, where it's very persuasive. The ceiling agrees. The ceiling always agrees; that's why you like it. Homework: tomorrow, tell one houseplant one true opinion, out loud, and don't apologize to it afterward.
DO
Mention the font
Ask who said the quote
Tell a houseplant the truth
DON'T
Text 'it's so you'
Offer to hold her hand
Suggest you get matching wolves
Screensaver will pick tonight's movie.

You scroll for a movie until your date falls asleep and the TV screensaver becomes the evening's feature.
Tonight's couch date starts with you scrolling for a movie: every thriller, every rom-com, one documentary about a cult. By the time you hover over one, your date is asleep and the TV has slipped into screensaver. It's an aquarium. You watch it for two hours, and it's the best movie you've seen all year. Press play on the first thing you see.
DO
Press play on anything
Answer 'pizza' immediately
Pick Saturday before Saturday
DON'T
Read every movie synopsis
Wake your date to vote
Rate the aquarium on Letterboxd
Money matters come to a head. You stand at the work vending machine long enough that it enters energy-saving mode. A coworker asks 'pizza or tacos' for the Friday lunch order, and by the time you say 'what are you feeling,' everyone's eating salads.

Romance is in the air, and it's buffering. Tonight's couch date starts with you scrolling for a movie: every thriller, every rom-com, one documentary about a cult, a Christmas movie already. By the time you hover over one, your date is asleep and the TV has slipped into screensaver. The screensaver is an aquarium. You watch it for two hours. It's the best movie you've seen all year, and you still can't rate it.

Friends ask where to go Saturday. Answer before Saturday. A Taurus figures prominently, refusing to leave the couch you're on. A Capricorn hands you a pros-and-cons list you never asked for. Compatibility: high with autoplay. Press play on the first thing you see. Lucky number: 47. Lucky color: loading-wheel gray.
DO
Press play on anything
Answer 'pizza' immediately
Pick Saturday before Saturday
DON'T
Read every movie synopsis
Wake your date to vote
Rate the aquarium on Letterboxd
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON

Oct 23 – Nov 21 · Water · ruled by Pluto
Frosting will spell your secret.

The office birthday sheet cake spells out your full legal name, middle name included, and accounting reads it aloud.
Your season opens with the Sun on Venus in your 1st, and Mars and Jupiter in your 10th turn it into an office sheet cake with your full legal name in blue frosting, middle name included. Accounting reads it aloud. Shadowy Pluto in your 4th traces the leak to your mother, who friended your boss years ago. Eat a corner piece and say nothing.
DO
Eat a corner piece
Thank accounting through your teeth
Let them wonder
DON'T
Investigate your mother
Explain the middle name
Admit the name is yours
The Sun crossed into your sign this morning and landed right on Venus retrograde, with Mercury already parked in your 1st house, so your season opens with you lit up like a crime scene. Every secretive cell in your body knows what that means. Somebody is going to try to celebrate you, and you've spent years making sure nobody has the data.

Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house of career turn it into an event. Expect the office to wheel out a sheet cake for the October birthdays this afternoon, Jupiter-sized, from Costco, with your full legal name on it in blue frosting. Middle name included. The one you've guarded like a launch code. Somebody from accounting will read it out loud, and Mars will make them read it with enthusiasm.

Shadowy Pluto, your ruler, sits in your 4th house of home and your mother, squared by the Sun and Venus, and that's where the leak is: she friended your boss on Facebook years ago and has been feeding them information ever since. Resist the urge to open an investigation. Eat a corner piece, say nothing, and let them wonder what else you're hiding.
DO
Eat a corner piece
Thank accounting through your teeth
Let them wonder
DON'T
Investigate your mother
Explain the middle name
Admit the name is yours
Old enemy will apologize sincerely.

Your middle-school enemy sends a sincere apology, and without the grudge you spend all day hunting for loopholes.
With the Sun, Mercury and Venus in your sign and Pluto in the basement of your past, somebody from middle school sends a sincere apology this morning. No excuses, no 'if.' You'll experience it as a theft: the grudge was load-bearing. All afternoon you reread it for a loophole. There isn't one. Homework: reply in under ten words, and none of them may be 'noted.'
DO
Reply in under ten words
Accept it like a receipt
Let the grudge retire
DON'T
Write 'noted'
Screenshot it for evidence
Audition a replacement enemy by dinner
The material today is heavy: the Sun, Mercury and Venus all crowded into your sign, and your ruler, basement-dwelling Pluto, down in your fourth house, where you keep the past filed alphabetically by grievance. This morning somebody from middle school, the one who read your notebook aloud to the whole cafeteria, sends a long, sincere apology. No excuses. No 'if.' A real one.

You'll experience this as a theft. That grudge has been load-bearing for decades; it's been your cardio, your bedtime story, the reason you check your posture in shop windows. Now there's a hole where it was, and all afternoon you'll reread the apology looking for a loophole, the way other people reread love letters. There isn't one. They meant it, which is worse.

After work you'll tell a friend, the friend will say 'that's beautiful,' and you'll look at her the way you looked at the cafeteria. Venus squaring Pluto wants you to fill the vacancy with a new enemy by bedtime; don't hold auditions. Homework: reply to the apology in fewer than ten words, and none of them may be 'noted.'
DO
Reply in under ten words
Accept it like a receipt
Let the grudge retire
DON'T
Write 'noted'
Screenshot it for evidence
Audition a replacement enemy by dinner
You'll stake out your party.

You'll stake out your own surprise party from the hydrangeas until your friends give up and eat the cake.
Your friends are planning a surprise. You already know. Tonight you stake it out from the hydrangeas across the street, in black, with binoculars, logging who shows. They crouch in the dark for three hours yelling 'surprise' at a DoorDash driver, then eat the cake and leave your gift on the porch. Walk in the front door and act shocked.
DO
Use the front door
Act shocked, convincingly
Eat one slice of cake
DON'T
Bring the binoculars inside
Investigate the pocket dollar
Dust the gift for prints
A surprise is being planned in your honor. You already know. You've known since Tuesday. Tonight you stake out your own surprise party from the hydrangeas across the street, in black, with binoculars, logging who shows and who flakes. Your friends crouch in the dark living room for three hours yelling 'surprise' at a DoorDash driver. Eventually they give up, eat the cake, and leave your gift on the porch. You photograph it before touching it.

Money matters take a sinister turn. A dollar bill appears in your coat pocket, and you spend the afternoon working out who planted it and why. Work dangles a promotion. You suspect a trap, and you're half right.

Romance is in the air. Somebody says 'I have a secret.' You say 'I know.' You don't. A stranger at the gym says 'happy Scorpio season,' and you ask who told them. Compatibility: high with the hydrangeas. Walk in the front door and act shocked. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: binocular black.
DO
Use the front door
Act shocked, convincingly
Eat one slice of cake
DON'T
Bring the binoculars inside
Investigate the pocket dollar
Dust the gift for prints
Sagittarius

Nov 22 – Dec 21 · Fire · ruled by Jupiter
Your date will book Lisbon.

You invent a spring move to Lisbon on tonight's first date, and by dessert your date is pricing flights.
Mercury, hiding in your 12th, squares your overbooked ruler Jupiter in your 9th house of travel, the classic setup for a lie that sounds better than the truth. On tonight's first date you'll announce you're moving to Lisbon in spring, and Saturn retrograde in your 5th makes it binding: by dessert your date is pricing flights. Learn where Lisbon is, quietly, before they ask.
DO
Close the listing at work
Order dessert slowly
Find Lisbon on a map
DON'T
Mention a spring move
Open the fare link
Say you already found an apartment
Your overbooked ruler Jupiter is in Leo in your 9th house of travel, sharing it with Mars, and both of them point you somewhere with cheaper wine and no forwarding address. Expect to spend the afternoon at work with a Lisbon apartment listing open behind a spreadsheet, scrolling tiled kitchens like scripture.

Mercury, hiding in your 12th house, squares Jupiter, which is the classic setup for a lie that sounds better than the truth. This is not the day for a first date, and you have one tonight. Somewhere around appetizers you'll announce you're moving to Lisbon in the spring. You are not moving to Lisbon in the spring. You have never been to Lisbon. Saturn retrograde in your 5th house of romance hears it anyway and makes it binding: by dessert your date has looked up flights and says they could probably work remote.

The Moon moves into your 5th tonight and joins Saturn, so the date goes beautifully, which is the worst outcome available to a person like you. Be wary of the follow-up text with a TAP Air Portugal fare in it. Learn where Lisbon is, quietly, before they ask.
DO
Close the listing at work
Order dessert slowly
Find Lisbon on a map
DON'T
Mention a spring move
Open the fare link
Say you already found an apartment
You'll pack instead of answering.

A friend asks you into her fourteen-month wedding party, and you pack a duffel instead of answering.
Jupiter, your ruler, is in your travel house, and Saturn retrograde is sitting on your fun. This morning a friend asks you into her wedding party: fourteen months, a group chat, a calendar called 'The Journey.' A yes is a cage with a dessert menu, so by afternoon there's a duffel on your bed for a town you can't pronounce. Homework: text yes and unpack.
DO
Text her yes
Unpack the duffel
Vote on the napkins
DON'T
Price bus tickets
Say you're keeping options open
Reply 'maybe' to a bride
Today's material: Jupiter, your ruler, in your house of long-distance travel, and Saturn retrograde parked on your house of fun, which is one planet holding the door open and another one locking it. This morning a friend asks you to be in her wedding party. The wedding is fourteen months away. There is already a group chat, a dress-code spreadsheet, and a shared calendar called 'The Journey.'

Notice what comes up. Fourteen months is longer than any lease you've signed or houseplant you've kept alive. A yes is a cage with a dessert menu. A no is a conversation. So you do the third thing, the thing you always do, and start pricing bus tickets to a town you can't pronounce. Mercury and Venus are hiding in your twelfth house, so the reason stays hidden even from you.

By afternoon there's a duffel on your bed with four shirts, a phone charger and no underwear, and you'll tell yourself you're keeping your options open. Meanwhile the group chat has added you and voted on napkins. Homework: text her yes, then unpack the duffel and stay in one room of your apartment for the length of an entire wedding toast.
DO
Text her yes
Unpack the duffel
Vote on the napkins
DON'T
Price bus tickets
Say you're keeping options open
Reply 'maybe' to a bride
You'll keep the wrong rideshare.

You'll ride the wrong rideshare to a kids' soccer banquet and leave with ziti and a participation trophy.
After work you climb into the wrong rideshare, notice four blocks in, and decide the stranger's destination beats yours. You end up at a kids' soccer banquet in a church basement, eat three plates of ziti, toast teamwork, and leave holding a participation trophy from a coach who never asks your name. Tonight, get in your own car.
DO
Check the license plate
Get in your own car
Return the trophy Monday
DON'T
Take the Tulsa tab
Toast a team you've never met
Sign up to coach next season
Career news arrives. Your boss asks for 'a quick sync,' and you're in the parking lot before 'sync' lands. A Capricorn forwards you an invite titled 'Q4 Roadmap,' and you open it at a gas station two counties away. An exciting opportunity goes up on the break-room corkboard. It's a ride share to Tulsa. You take the little paper tab.

Travel is indicated, though not by you. After work you climb into the wrong rideshare, notice four blocks in, and decide the stranger's destination beats yours. The driver delivers you to a kids' soccer banquet in a church basement, where you eat three plates of ziti, give a toast about teamwork, and get handed a participation trophy by a coach who never asks your name.

Romance is in the air, but you're in a different zip code. Somebody texts 'where are you?' and you don't know. A Gemini claims you were at their thing. You were. Compatibility: high with whoever's driving. Get in your own car. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: church-basement linoleum.
DO
Check the license plate
Get in your own car
Return the trophy Monday
DON'T
Take the Tulsa tab
Toast a team you've never met
Sign up to coach next season
Capricorn

Dec 22 – Jan 19 · Earth · ruled by Saturn
You'll evict Mom from Netflix.

You sign every freeloader out of your Netflix, and the last screen to go dark is your mother's, mid-murder.
Mars in your 8th house of shared accounts trines grim-faced Saturn, your ruler, retrograde in your 4th house of family, and you'll find eleven devices on your Netflix, including a Roku in a town you've never seen. You'll sign them all out, and the last screen to go dark is your mother's, eleven minutes before the detective explains everything. Give her the password back and tell nobody.
DO
Sign out every device
Answer when your mother calls
Give her the password back
DON'T
Invoice the college roommate
Refresh the device list
Tell her who the murderer was
Mars in your 8th house of shared accounts and other people's money trines grim-faced Saturn, your ruler, retrograde in your 4th house of home and family, and that draws a straight line from your bookkeeping to your relatives. Expect to open your Netflix settings this morning for no reason and find eleven devices logged in, including a Roku in a town you've never visited.

Mercury and Venus in your 11th house of friends mean some of those devices belong to people you were once nice to: a college roommate, an ex's sister, somebody from a group trip years ago. Jupiter, also in your 8th, makes the number bigger every time you refresh. Resist the urge to send each of them an itemized invoice. You'll draft it anyway.

Mars trine Saturn gives you the discipline to finish the job, so you'll click sign out of all devices, and the last screen to go dark is your mother's living room TV, mid-episode, eleven minutes before the detective explains everything. The Moon moves into your 4th tonight, and she calls. Give your mother the password back and tell nobody.
DO
Sign out every device
Answer when your mother calls
Give her the password back
DON'T
Invoice the college roommate
Refresh the device list
Tell her who the murderer was
You'll escalate a coworker's tears.

A coworker tears up in the break room, you escalate it to HR, and tonight they get a calendar invite.
Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your fourth house, the room where you learned feelings happened to other families. This afternoon a coworker tears up in the break room, and you triage: is it a manager issue, should we loop in HR, put it in writing. By tonight they've accepted your calendar invite, 'Check-in re: earlier,' out of fear. Homework: say 'that sounds hard,' then nothing.
DO
Say 'that sounds hard'
Sit down
Stop talking
DON'T
Offer to loop in HR
Grade your own comforting
Send a 'Check-in re: earlier' invite
Material for today: Saturn, your ruler, retrograde in your fourth house, the room where you learned that feelings were something that happened to other families. Mars trines it, so you'll be very efficient about whatever comes up, which is the problem. This afternoon a coworker tears up in the break room over something small that isn't small, and you're the only one standing there.

Watch the defense go up. You don't sit down; you triage. Within a minute you've asked whether it's a manager issue, offered to loop in HR, and suggested they put it in writing so there's a record. They thank you for the tissue, which you handed over like a form. You've escalated a feeling into a process, the only kind of comfort you were raised on.

On the drive home you'll grade yourself a B-plus, deducting points for lack of follow-up. Late tonight you send a calendar invite titled 'Check-in re: earlier,' and they accept it, out of fear. Homework: on Monday, say 'that sounds hard,' then say nothing else, and do not open a ticket, a doc, or a thread.
DO
Say 'that sounds hard'
Sit down
Stop talking
DON'T
Offer to loop in HR
Grade your own comforting
Send a 'Check-in re: earlier' invite
You'll chair the Fun Committee.

You join the office Fun Committee as a joke, become chair by afternoon, and postpone fun until Q3.
The office Fun Committee invites you as a joke. You accept, arrive with a binder, and by lunch replace Friday bowling with a quarterly review of Friday bowling. By afternoon you're chair, fun is postponed to Q3, and the only other member, a guy who just wanted a karaoke machine, transfers departments. Tonight, approve one karaoke machine, and sing on it.
DO
Approve one karaoke machine
Leave the binder at home
Let bowling be bowling
DON'T
Audit the charity round-up
Say 'governance' on a date
Schedule fun for next fiscal year
An exciting invitation arrives. The office Fun Committee asks you to join, mostly as a joke. You accept, arrive with a binder, and by lunch you've replaced Friday bowling with a quarterly review of Friday bowling. By afternoon you're chair. By quitting time, fun is postponed to Q3, and the committee's only other member, a guy who just wanted a karaoke machine, quietly transfers departments.

Money matters come to a head. A gas station asks if you'd like to round up for charity, and you ask to see the charity's books. The windfall you've been promised arrives: a nickel, heads up, in a puddle. You take it.

Romance is in the air, on a schedule. Somebody asks what you do for fun, and you say 'governance.' A Pisces invites you to 'just vibe,' and you ask what the deliverable is. Compatibility: high with anyone who owns a label maker. Approve one karaoke machine, and sing on it. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: binder-tab navy.
DO
Approve one karaoke machine
Leave the binder at home
Let bowling be bowling
DON'T
Audit the charity round-up
Say 'governance' on a date
Schedule fun for next fiscal year
Aquarius

Jan 20 – Feb 18 · Air · ruled by Uranus
Your theremin will return tonight.

You dig the theremin out of the closet tonight, and the neighbor knocks along in perfect rhythm.
Contrarian Uranus, your ruler, retrograde in your 5th house of fun, trines Pluto in your sign, and an old obsession gets its power back: the theremin in your hall closet. You'll pitch it to a coworker, who'll suddenly be out Monday. Tonight Mars and Jupiter in your 7th give the neighbor a broom handle. Play to the empty room. It's the only audience you haven't lost.
DO
Dust off the theremin
Play the 1951 sci-fi score
Wave at nothing with conviction
DON'T
Bring it in Monday
Explain it needs no touching
Ask the neighbor for requests
Contrarian Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of creativity and fun you can't afford, and it trines Pluto in your own sign, which means an old obsession gets its power back on. Expect to remember, sometime this afternoon, that you own a theremin. You bought it during a phase. The phase never ended. It went into the hall closet.

Venus, retrograde in your 10th house of career, squares Pluto in your 1st, so be wary of mentioning the theremin at work. You will mention the theremin at work. You'll explain to a coworker that it's played without touching, which is how you prefer to do most things, and you'll offer to bring it in Monday. They'll suddenly be out Monday. Nobody had told them about Monday yet.

Tonight Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house of open enemies give the neighbor on the other side of your wall a voice and a broom handle. You'll be playing the score from The Day the Earth Stood Still, waving your hands at nothing, and the knocking will come in perfect rhythm. Play to the empty room. It's the only audience you haven't lost.
DO
Dust off the theremin
Play the 1951 sci-fi score
Wave at nothing with conviction
DON'T
Bring it in Monday
Explain it needs no touching
Ask the neighbor for requests
Somebody will hug you unannounced.

Somebody hugs you without warning at tonight's farewell drinks, and you pat their back twice like a vending machine.
Pluto sits in your sign pressing on every boundary, and Mars and Jupiter are in your house of other people, who are coming at you physically. At a coworker's farewell drinks after work, somebody you barely know hugs you without warning. Arms at your sides, two stiff pats, then the rest of the party behind a pillar. Homework: hug one willing person this weekend for three full seconds, counted silently.
DO
Hug back for three seconds
Count silently
Leave the pillar
DON'T
Pat twice
Call it 'a lot'
Lecture on the handshake's history
The material today is Pluto, parked in your sign and pressing on every boundary you've ever drawn, plus Mars and Jupiter in your house of other people, who are going to come at you physically. At a coworker's farewell drinks after work, somebody you barely know goes in for a hug without warning, and you're inside it before your defenses finish booting up.

Your body handles it the way a coat rack handles a coat. Arms at your sides, then two stiff pats on the back, the kind you'd give a vending machine that finally dropped the chips. It lasts three seconds. You experience it as forty. Avoidant attachment isn't a crime, but you'll spend the rest of the party behind a pillar so it can't happen twice.

Late tonight you'll describe the hug to somebody as 'a lot,' then spend twenty minutes on the history of the handshake, which is how you put distance between yourself and anything that touched you. Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde, so your inner rebel wants a theory instead of a feeling. Homework: hug one willing person this weekend for three full seconds, counted silently.
DO
Hug back for three seconds
Count silently
Leave the pillar
DON'T
Pat twice
Call it 'a lot'
Lecture on the handshake's history
Aliens will return you early.

Aliens beam you up over an Arby's tonight, hear about your podcast, and return you early with a laminated NO.
Late tonight a saucer hovers over the Arby's parking lot and beams you aboard. You ask the crew if they've heard of your favorite podcast. They haven't. You explain it, all of it, including the episode about them. Within the hour they return you to the same spot, early, with a laminated card that says NO. Let the aliens talk first.
DO
Let the aliens talk first
Bring snacks, not slides
Wave goodbye politely
DON'T
Start with 'so, interestingly'
Recommend the parking-meter documentary
Ask the aliens to subscribe
A career breakthrough is coming. You start a sentence in the meeting with 'so, interestingly,' and the meeting ends without you. Your big idea for the office gets called 'a lot.' Accurate. A coworker asks about your weekend, and you recommend a nine-hour documentary about the history of the parking meter.

Close encounters are forecast. Late tonight a saucer hovers over the Arby's parking lot and beams you aboard. You ask the crew whether they've heard of your favorite podcast. They haven't. You explain it. All of it. Including the episode about them. Within the hour they return you to the exact spot, early, with a laminated card that says NO, and they take the long way home to avoid Earth.

Friends request proof. You have a slideshow. Somebody at the bar asks you to keep it short, which is adorable. A Sagittarius figures prominently, already in another galaxy. Compatibility: high with nobody in this one. Let the aliens talk first. Lucky number: 9. Lucky color: tractor-beam teal.
DO
Let the aliens talk first
Bring snacks, not slides
Wave goodbye politely
DON'T
Start with 'so, interestingly'
Recommend the parking-meter documentary
Ask the aliens to subscribe
Pisces

Feb 19 – Mar 20 · Water · ruled by Neptune
They'll apologize for your dream.

You give a coworker the silent treatment over a dream, and by afternoon they apologize for it.
The nearly full Moon sits in your sign fused to foggy Neptune, your ruler, and the line between what happened and what you dreamed dissolves. Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of work blow it up: you'll give a coworker the wounded silent treatment over a dream with a boat in it, and by afternoon they'll apologize. Forgive nobody for anything that happened while you were asleep.
DO
Nod woundedly at the copier
Send the gift card
Check whether there was a boat
DON'T
Go back to sleep tonight
Tell anyone about the boat
Forgive them for the dentist
The Moon is in your own sign today, nearly full and fused to foggy Neptune, your ruler, just over the border in Aries, which smears the line between what happened and what you dreamed until there's no line left. Expect to wake up certain that a coworker was cruel to you. They weren't. It was a dream. There was a boat. Your dentist was there. Neptune says it counts.

Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of the daily grind blow it up to workplace size. Be wary of the silent treatment you'll give that coworker at the copier: the wounded little nods, the it's-fine in the hallway. By afternoon they'll be so rattled they'll apologize for something they didn't do in a place that doesn't exist, and you'll graciously accept.

Tonight the Moon crosses into your 2nd house of money beside retrograde Neptune and Saturn, so the guilt shows up with a price tag, and you'll send them a fifteen-dollar DoorDash gift card for apologizing so beautifully. This is not the night to go back to sleep and look for the boat. Forgive nobody for anything that happened while you were unconscious.
DO
Nod woundedly at the copier
Send the gift card
Check whether there was a boat
DON'T
Go back to sleep tonight
Tell anyone about the boat
Forgive them for the dentist
You'll fall for aisle nine.

A hardware-store guy finds your lightbulb, and later you go back for an identical one in better shoes; he's off.
The Moon sits nearly full on Neptune in your sign, a fog machine pointed at your judgment. This afternoon a man in an orange apron walks you to aisle nine for one lightbulb, and by the parking lot you've given him a boathouse and named the dog. Later you go back for an identical bulb in better shoes; he's off. Homework: screw both in and look at your apartment.
DO
Buy one bulb, once
Screw it in tonight
Look at your apartment
DON'T
Name his dog
Change shoes for aisle nine
Buy bulbs for romantic reasons
Today's material is the nearly full Moon sitting in your sign right on top of soft-focus Neptune, your ruler, which is a fog machine pointed directly at your judgment. This afternoon you go to the hardware store for one lightbulb. A man in an orange apron walks you to aisle nine, explains soft white versus daylight, and hands you the box with both hands.

This is projection, and it's fast. By the register you've given him a boathouse, a bad knee from rowing, and a mother who'll love you. By the parking lot you've named the dog. In the car you'll feel you've been through something together. He sold you a lightbulb. Jung had a word for this. Your friends have a shorter one: 'again.'

Later in the day the Moon slips into Aries and gives the fantasy a gas pedal: you drive back for a second, identical bulb you don't need, wearing better shoes. A different man rings you up. Yours is off today. Homework: screw both bulbs in tonight and look at what they light up, which is your apartment, the one with your name on the mailbox.
DO
Buy one bulb, once
Screw it in tonight
Look at your apartment
DON'T
Name his dog
Change shoes for aisle nine
Buy bulbs for romantic reasons
The psychic will cry first.

A strip-mall psychic reads your palm after work, bursts into tears, and pays you twenty dollars for the session.
The Moon leaves your sign later today, but not before steering you into the strip-mall psychic next to the vape shop. She takes your hand, looks into your eyes, and bursts into tears. By the end she's sobbing into the crystal ball, you're patting her back, and she pays you twenty dollars and asks if you're free next Friday. Keep your palms in your pockets.
DO
Keep palms in pockets
Bring tissues for the psychic
Spend the twenty on yourself
DON'T
Buy the clarity crystal
Ask about the stranger's dog
Start charging her by the hour
The Moon leaves your sign later today, but not before steering you into the strip-mall psychic next to the vape shop after work. She takes your hand, looks into your eyes, and bursts into tears. She feels everything you feel, and it's too much for a licensed professional. By the end of the reading she's sobbing into the crystal ball, you're patting her back, and she pays you twenty dollars and asks if you're free next Friday.

Money matters loom. A mall kiosk sells you a crystal for clarity, and you lose it in your own car before you reach the exit. A coworker lends you a pen, and you treasure it like a relic.

Romance is in the air, and you're crying in it. A stranger tells you their dog's name, and you need a minute. A Cancer tries to out-cry you at the bus stop. It's a draw. Compatibility: high with the psychic. Keep your palms in your pockets. Lucky number: 20. Lucky color: crystal-ball smudge.
DO
Keep palms in pockets
Bring tissues for the psychic
Spend the twenty on yourself
DON'T
Buy the clarity crystal
Ask about the stranger's dog
Start charging her by the hour

YA ROASTED!

WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-23 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris

Planet positions
Sun	0.3° Scorpio
Moon	28.4° Pisces
Mercury	21.0° Scorpio
Venus	1.0° Scorpio ℞
Mars	14.3° Leo
Jupiter	23.2° Leo
Saturn	9.8° Aries ℞
Uranus	5.0° Gemini ℞
Neptune	2.3° Aries ℞
Pluto	3.1° Aquarius
North Node	26.5° Aquarius

TODAY'S ASPECTS

Sun conjunct Venus (0.7°, fused)
Neptune sextile Pluto (0.8°, easy)
Uranus trine Pluto (1.9°, flowing)
Venus square Pluto (2.1°, tense)
Mercury square Jupiter (2.3°, tense)
Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
Sun square Pluto (2.8°, tense)
Moon conjunct Neptune (3.9°, fused)
Mars trine Saturn (4.5°, 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 Friday, October 23, 2026.