ROAST-O-SCOPE
- Scorpio season
- Full Moon in Aries
- Mercury, 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
Retirees will revoke your paddle.
You'll smash an overhead at a retired dentist, and the pickleball elders will vote to revoke your paddle.
With the Full Moon in your sign conjunct retrograde Saturn, you're fully charged and fully supervised. Your ruler Mars sits in your 5th house of games, so be wary of the community-center pickleball courts: you will spike an overhead at a retired dentist in a knee brace, and Saturn rules old men. The vote to revoke your paddle will be unanimous. Lose one thing on purpose today.
DO
- Lose one point on purpose
- Return the loaner paddle
- Sit in the shade
DON'T
- Defend your Uno record
- Charge the net
- Smash at anyone wearing braces
With the Full Moon in Aries lighting your 1st house and sitting almost on top of retrograde Saturn, expect the strange sensation of being fully charged and fully supervised at once. The Moon says go. Cosmic hall monitor Saturn, backing up, says sit down. Your body will want to sprint at something this morning; resist the urge to sprint at people.
Your ruler Mars sits in Leo in your 5th house of games, beside Jupiter and trining the Moon, which turns Saturday recreation into combat. Be wary of the community-center pickleball courts. This is not the day to spike an overhead at a retired dentist in a knee brace, and it is absolutely the day you will. Saturn rules old men, and old men run pickleball. Expect a vote. Expect it to be unanimous. Expect them to revoke your paddle.
With retrograde Venus fused to the Sun in your 8th house, anyone who has ever played Uno with you will choose today to bring it up. Do not defend yourself; winning that argument is exactly how you lost the court. Lose one thing today on purpose. One. Then sit in the shade with it like a grown-up.
DO
- Lose one point on purpose
- Return the loaner paddle
- Sit in the shade
DON'T
- Defend your Uno record
- Charge the net
- Smash at anyone wearing braces
You'll declare three accent walls.
You bail on the bathroom's second coat, and by afternoon you're calling three unfinished rooms accent walls.
The Full Moon parks on Saturn in your first house, so the self gets a spotlight and a deadline. You start repainting the bathroom early, get bored at the second coat, and open a fresh can in the hallway instead. By afternoon every room is a third done and you're calling them accent walls. Homework: finish the wall behind the toilet. Just that one.
DO
- Finish the wall behind the toilet
- Use the painter's tape you bought
- Close the hallway paint can
DON'T
- Open a fourth can
- Call the kitchen stripe intentional
- Start a mural to compensate
Session note, Saturday. The Full Moon is sitting directly on hall-monitor Saturn in your first house, which puts the self under a very bright lamp right next to the planet of finishing things. That's the material. Early, you decide the bathroom needs repainting, and you're rolling the first wall before the hardware-store bag hits the floor. No tape. Tape is for people with a future.
At the second coat, something comes up for you: boredom, dressed as inspiration. Rather than sit with it, you crack a new can in the hallway. By afternoon the hallway is half done too, and the kitchen has one bold stripe. Notice the pattern. You don't finish things. You begin them violently and leave the rest to the next version of you, who also won't.
Later a friend drops by, takes in three rooms each a third painted, and asks what happened. You call all three accent walls. She nods the way people nod at a man explaining his crypto. Homework: finish the smallest wall, the one behind the toilet, and stand there until the urge to start a fourth room passes.
DO
- Finish the wall behind the toilet
- Use the painter's tape you bought
- Close the hallway paint can
DON'T
- Open a fourth can
- Call the kitchen stripe intentional
- Start a mural to compensate
You'll outbid yourself at auction.
You'll bid against yourself for a ceramic goose at this afternoon's church auction and win at $340.
The Full Moon lands in your sign, and this afternoon a church rummage auction pays for it. You'll keep raising your paddle on a ceramic goose because somebody keeps bidding, and that somebody is you. Three hundred and forty dollars. A parish record. The goose rides home buckled into the passenger seat. Keep your hand in your lap until the gavel falls.
DO
- Sit on your paddle hand
- Let the goose go
- Bring a Taurus as chaperone
DON'T
- Make eye contact with auctioneers
- Go back for the twin
- Buckle the goose in front
The Full Moon lands in your sign, which means you're lit up like a gas station on a dark highway and twice as easy to rob. An auction figures prominently. This afternoon at a church rummage auction you'll raise your paddle on a ceramic goose. Somebody bids. You raise. Somebody bids. You raise again, because you would rather die than lose to that asshole. That asshole is you. The goose goes for three hundred and forty dollars. A parish record.
Romance is in the air, and it smells like your brake pads. A stranger at a red light will glance over, and you'll treat it as a drag race. It wasn't. A Taurus will ask why the goose is wearing a seatbelt. Compatibility: high with the goose.
Avoid eye contact with anybody holding a gavel. A friend will suggest splitting the lunch check and you'll try to win it. Money matters come to a head on the drive home, when you learn the goose had a matching twin and you let somebody else take it. Keep your hand in your lap until the gavel falls. Lucky number: 340. Lucky color: Rummage-Sale Goose Beige.
DO
- Sit on your paddle hand
- Let the goose go
- Bring a Taurus as chaperone
DON'T
- Make eye contact with auctioneers
- Go back for the twin
- Buckle the goose in front
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Taurus
You'll padlock the thermostat tonight.
Venus reopens the thermostat treaty, and by tonight it's padlocked at 68 and you're too proud to unlock it.
Your ruler Venus is retrograde in your 7th house and squaring Pluto, which reopens the oldest treaty in any household: the thermostat. With Mars and Jupiter overheating your 4th house of home, expect escalation. By tonight it sits in a clear plastic lockbox, padlocked at 68, and you're freezing at your own setting. Put on a cardigan in the bathroom, where nobody sees you lose.
DO
- Guard the key
- Wear the cardigan secretly
- Call 68 tropical
DON'T
- Touch the dial
- Admit you're cold
- Let anyone frisk you
Backpedaling Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 7th house, fused to the Sun and squaring Pluto in your 10th, so every old treaty with whoever shares your space is up for renegotiation. Specifically the thermostat. Expect somebody to touch it this afternoon. Expect them to touch it with intent.
Mars and Jupiter are both camped in Leo in your 4th house of home, which is a lot of heat and a lot of overreach in the one place you planned to lie down. Resist the urge to escalate, and know that you won't. By evening the thermostat sits in a clear plastic lockbox, padlocked at 68, and the key lives somewhere on your person nobody wants to search. Pluto calls that a power move. Everyone else in the house calls it a hostage situation.
The Full Moon and retrograde Saturn share your 12th house of secrets, and today's secret is that you are freezing at the exact temperature you personally padlocked. You own nine sweaters. Unlocking the box would be losing. Put on a cardigan in the bathroom, where nobody can see you lose.
DO
- Guard the key
- Wear the cardigan secretly
- Call 68 tropical
DON'T
- Touch the dial
- Admit you're cold
- Let anyone frisk you
You'll wear both robes tonight.
Somebody gifts you a new bathrobe, and tonight you wear it underneath the old one, which outranks it.
Retrograde Venus crawls through your partnership house, so someone who loves you tries to upgrade your stuff. This morning it's a plush new bathrobe. By lunch you've calculated the old one's cost per wear and granted it tenure, and tonight you wear both, the old one on top, like a sofa wearing a sofa. Homework: hang the new robe on the old hook and thank it aloud.
DO
- Accept the robe using words
- Hang it on the old hook
- Thank it out loud
DON'T
- Calculate cost per wear
- Grant the old robe tenure
- Introduce the robes to each other
Today's material is your ruler, slow-reversing Venus, backing through your partnership house, fused to the Sun and squared by Pluto. Translation: someone who loves you is about to try to improve one of your possessions, and you will experience it as a home invasion. This morning a partner, or somebody auditioning for the role, hands you a new bathrobe. Plush. Clean. Not yours.
What comes up is grief, and you handle it the way you handle everything, by refusing to move. By lunch you've calculated the old robe's cost per wear, roughly a nickel, and decided it has earned tenure. The frayed belt, the bleach stain shaped like Ohio, the pocket that holds exactly one Werther's: those aren't flaws. That's seniority.
Tonight you put on the new robe to be gracious, then put the old one on over it, because the old one has to be on the outside, where it can see. You'll look like a sofa wearing a sofa. Notice that you're calling this loyalty. Homework: hang the new robe on the old robe's hook and say thank you to it, out loud, once.
DO
- Accept the robe using words
- Hang it on the old hook
- Thank it out loud
DON'T
- Calculate cost per wear
- Grant the old robe tenure
- Introduce the robes to each other
Your brunch will become dinner.
You'll sit down for brunch this morning, stay through dinner service, and get two checks stapled together.
Late this morning you'll slide into a corner booth for brunch and settle in like a load-bearing wall. Shifts change. Menus change. Candles come out. By tonight you're ordering short rib off the dinner menu while the host seats people around you like a fountain. The check arrives as two checks, stapled. Get up before they start serving breakfast again.
DO
- Order the French toast early
- Wear the elastic waistband
- Accept the fear dessert
DON'T
- Answer the 'leaving soon' text
- Say 'one more' out loud
- Stay for the breakfast reset
Brunch figures prominently. Late this morning you'll slide into a corner booth, order the French toast and settle in like a load-bearing wall. The waitstaff changes shifts around you. The menus change around you. The lights dim. Candles appear. You'll order the short rib off a dinner menu you didn't know existed, and the host will start seating people around you like you're a fountain in a mall.
A friend will text 'leaving soon?' twice. You'll reply 'basically.' A Gemini will promise to meet you, cancel, then un-cancel, and you'll outlast that too. Romance is in the air, specifically between you and the bread basket, which they keep refilling out of fear.
Money matters come to a head when the check arrives as two checks, brunch and dinner, stapled together. An unexpected windfall: a free dessert, offered the way you'd offer a bear a sandwich. Avoid the phrase 'one more.' Get up before they start serving breakfast again. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: Ketchup-Smear Red.
DO
- Order the French toast early
- Wear the elastic waistband
- Accept the fear dessert
DON'T
- Answer the 'leaving soon' text
- Say 'one more' out loud
- Stay for the breakfast reset
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Gemini
You'll leave with two haircuts.
You'll tell a stylist two versions of your weekend, and you'll leave with two haircuts that have never met.
Your ruler Mercury is retrograde in your 6th house and squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of talking, and Uranus retrograde in your 1st wants your hair changed back to something regrettable. This is not the day to chat in a salon chair. You'll tell a stylist two versions of one weekend, she'll cut a side for each, and you'll leave wearing two haircuts. Keep your mouth shut near scissors.
DO
- Pick a side
- Buy a beanie after
- Stand in profile for photos
DON'T
- Talk while she's cutting
- Revive your 2014 look
- Ask for 'the usual'
Uranus is retrograde in Gemini in your 1st house, which means your appearance wants a dramatic change it has already had once, probably in 2014. Expect a Saturday urge to do something about your hair. Be wary of acting on it in front of a stranger holding scissors.
Motor-mouthed Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in your 6th house of errands and squaring Jupiter in your 3rd house of talking, and talking is the problem. This is not the day to chat in a salon chair. You'll tell the stylist two different versions of the same weekend, she'll cut the left side for one and the right side for the other, and you'll walk out wearing two haircuts that have never met. Mercury retrograde means you'll book a fix. Jupiter means you'll talk through that one too.
The Full Moon conjunct Saturn in your 11th house puts your friends in a judgmental mood tonight. Expect a group photo, and expect each of them to stand on the side of you they prefer. Pick a side. Next time, keep your mouth shut whenever the scissors are near your ear.
DO
- Pick a side
- Buy a beanie after
- Stand in profile for photos
DON'T
- Talk while she's cutting
- Revive your 2014 look
- Ask for 'the usual'
Laundromat silence will break you.
Your phone dies at the laundromat, and forty minutes later a towel-folding stranger has heard your whole week, with voices.
Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in your chores house, so your phone dies at the laundromat with forty minutes left on the wash. You read the dye warning twice, then a thought of your own arrives, unaccompanied, and you panic. By minute twenty you're narrating your week to a man folding towels, who relocates to the far dryer. Homework: one silent spin cycle.
DO
- Sit through one spin cycle
- Let the thought talk first
- Read the dye sign once
DON'T
- Borrow a stranger's charger
- Narrate both sides with voices
- Follow him to the far dryer
Your ruler, Mercury, is retrograde in your house of chores, which means the material today is laundry and the absence of a signal. Sometime before lunch, at the laundromat, your phone dies at four percent, in the middle of three conversations. The wash cycle says forty minutes. For you, forty minutes without input is not a wait. It's a sensory deprivation tank with a coin slot.
Watch what comes up. Minute six, you've read every sign on the wall twice, including the one about dyes. Minute eleven, a thought of your own arrives, unaccompanied, and you panic. This is the pattern: you keep two of everything, phones, opinions, friend groups, so you never have to sit alone with the one person you can't talk over.
By minute twenty you're narrating your entire week to a man folding towels, both sides of every argument, with voices. He moves his towels to the dryer at the far end. You follow him to finish the story. Homework: sit through one full spin cycle in silence, and when a thought shows up, let it talk first.
DO
- Sit through one spin cycle
- Let the thought talk first
- Read the dye sign once
DON'T
- Borrow a stranger's charger
- Narrate both sides with voices
- Follow him to the far dryer
Bridesmaids will vote on you.
You'll send your takedown of the bridesmaids' group chat to the bridesmaids' group chat, and they'll answer with a poll.
This afternoon you'll type a long, devastating review of the bridesmaids' group chat, robes and 'vision' included, and send it straight to the bridesmaids' group chat. Eleven read receipts. One thumbs up from the bride's mother, who didn't read it. Then somebody starts a poll about whether you still come. Read the name of the chat before you type a single word.
DO
- Read the chat name first
- Vote in the poll yourself
- Draft only one reply
DON'T
- Blame autocorrect for paragraphs
- Unsend after eleven reads
- Thank the bride's mother
A message will go to the wrong place, and the wrong place is the worst possible place. Sometime after lunch you'll type a long, devastating review of the bridesmaids' group chat: the matching robes, the bride's 'vision,' the woman who calls everybody 'hun.' Then you'll send it to the bridesmaids' group chat. Eleven read receipts. One thumbs up, from the bride's mother, who didn't read it. Then somebody starts a poll: 'Do we still want them there.'
Work matters come to a head on Monday, but you'll rehearse it today. A coworker will ask which version of you is coming to the meeting. Have an answer. Have two. An old flame will like a photo, and you'll draft both replies: the warm one and the one a lawyer would make you delete.
A sibling will screenshot the whole mess and save it for Thanksgiving. Avoid typing with your thumbs, and with your mouth. Compatibility: high with whoever's running the poll. Read the name of the chat before you type a single word. Lucky number: 11. Lucky color: Read-Receipt Gray.
DO
- Read the chat name first
- Vote in the poll yourself
- Draft only one reply
DON'T
- Blame autocorrect for paragraphs
- Unsend after eleven reads
- Thank the bride's mother
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Cancer
Boss is coming for dinner.
You'll catch your boss alone with a Hungry-Man in the frozen aisle and invite them to Sunday dinner.
The Full Moon, your ruler, sits on retrograde Saturn in your 10th house of career, and with Mars and Jupiter in your money house, today's grocery run turns into a rescue mission. You'll find your boss in the frozen aisle holding a single Hungry-Man dinner, and by checkout they're coming to Sunday dinner and you're buying a nine-pound roast. Do not ask for a raise over the gravy.
DO
- Buy the big roast
- Set an extra plate
- Make them take leftovers
DON'T
- Mention the Hungry-Man
- Cry at the church cookbook
- Ask for a raise over gravy
Your ruler, the Moon, is full tonight in Aries in your 10th house of career, sitting right on retrograde Saturn, the planet of bosses and consequences. Expect the wall between your job and your kitchen to dissolve on a Saturday. Be wary of anyone with authority over you looking tired in public, because you will try to feed them.
With Mars and Jupiter crowding your 2nd house of money and the Moon trining Mars, today's grocery run gets expensive and specific. Somewhere in the frozen aisle you'll spot your boss alone in sweatpants, holding a single Hungry-Man dinner like a confession. Resist the urge to intervene. You won't. By the checkout they're coming to Sunday dinner, and you're buying a nine-pound roast to prove you meant it.
Retrograde Venus and Mercury in your 5th house send you digging through a church cookbook from 1987 tonight, and you'll cry at a casserole because the recipe says 'serves a family.' Make the roast. Set the extra plate. Do not ask for a raise over the gravy.
DO
- Buy the big roast
- Set an extra plate
- Make them take leftovers
DON'T
- Mention the Hungry-Man
- Cry at the church cookbook
- Ask for a raise over gravy
Your date will shiver tonight.
Your date gets cold at tonight's bonfire, and you'd rather watch them shiver than lend an old flame's hoodie.
Retrograde Venus backs through your romance house, and tonight at a bonfire your date gets cold while an old flame's college hoodie sits folded in your bag. You say it's not a lending hoodie and watch someone who likes you shiver through two s'mores. Late tonight you sleep in it. Homework: move it out of the top drawer.
DO
- Move the hoodie down a drawer
- Offer your date your jacket
- Bring an actual blanket
DON'T
- Call it a non-lending hoodie
- Watch them shiver through s'mores
- Cry at an unfamiliar fight song
Today's material: Venus and Mercury, both retrograde, backing through your romance house like two exes fighting over one parking spot. Tonight, at a backyard bonfire, a date gets cold. It's October; this was foreseeable. And in your bag, folded like a flag, is the hoodie: an old flame's college hoodie, faded, two sizes wrong, smelling faintly of a decision you never made.
Your date asks if you have anything warm. You hear yourself say, 'It's not really a lending hoodie.' Clinically, what you're doing is guarding a transitional object: a security blanket, for a grown adult, with a mascot on it. You will watch somebody who actually likes you shiver through two s'mores rather than let a living person touch an artifact of a finished relationship.
Late tonight, alone, you fold that hoodie with more tenderness than you showed your date all evening, then sleep in it and get misty at a fight song you don't know the words to. Homework: move the hoodie out of the top drawer. You don't have to give it away. You just have to make it slightly harder to reach.
DO
- Move the hoodie down a drawer
- Offer your date your jacket
- Bring an actual blanket
DON'T
- Call it a non-lending hoodie
- Watch them shiver through s'mores
- Cry at an unfamiliar fight song
You'll buy your stuff back.
You'll hold a yard sale this morning and spend it buying your own things back from strangers, down forty dollars.
You'll drag everything onto the lawn early for a yard sale, mark it all a dollar, and watch a woman pick up the lamp from your first apartment. You'll buy it back for five. Then the bread maker. Then a shoebox of birthday cards. By lunch you're down forty dollars and up one lamp. Hand the cash box to the Capricorn next door and go inside.
DO
- Price the lamp at a million
- Let the Capricorn run cash
- Hide the birthday cards indoors
DON'T
- Tell the rooster's backstory
- Make change from your wallet
- Follow the lamp to her car
A yard sale is in your stars, and your stars are priced to move. You'll drag everything onto the lawn early, mark it all a dollar, and watch a woman pick up the lamp from your first apartment. You'll buy it back from her for five. Then the bread maker. Then a shoebox of birthday cards from people who spelled your name wrong. By lunch you're down forty dollars and up one lamp.
Romance is in the air, and it's a minivan dad haggling over a ceramic rooster. You'll tell him the rooster's entire childhood until he backs slowly toward his car. A stranger will ask if the couch is free. It is not. Nothing is free. Everything has a story.
Money matters come to a head when the Capricorn next door offers to run your cash box for a reasonable fee. Avoid driveways, signage and anyone carrying a tote bag. Hand over the cash box and go inside. Lucky number: -40. Lucky color: Price-Sticker Neon Pink.
DO
- Price the lamp at a million
- Let the Capricorn run cash
- Hide the birthday cards indoors
DON'T
- Tell the rooster's backstory
- Make change from your wallet
- Follow the lamp to her car
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Leo
Photographer will move you back.
You'll plant yourself center in the family's fall photos, and the photographer will move you behind a tall uncle.
Mars and Jupiter in your 1st house hand you the confidence of somebody who's never been edited, but your ruler Sun sits in your 4th house of family with retrograde Venus. Be wary of today's fall family photos. You'll plant yourself dead center in the good jacket, and the photographer will move you to the back row behind a tall uncle. Stand where she puts you. Smile like it was your idea.
DO
- Stand where she puts you
- Wear the good jacket anyway
- Smile like it was planned
DON'T
- Stand on a park bench
- Argue cheekbones with relatives
- Photoshop out the uncle
Swaggering Mars and supersized Jupiter are both in Leo in your 1st house, so you'll wake up with the confidence of somebody who has never once been edited. Expect to feel photogenic. Expect to be wrong about how much room that entitles you to.
Your ruler, the Sun, sits in Scorpio in your 4th house of family, fused to retrograde Venus, while retrograde Mercury in that same house squares Jupiter in your 1st. Translation: be wary of any family photo taken today, especially the professional fall kind under a red maple in the park. You'll arrive in the good jacket and plant yourself dead center. The photographer will look at you, then at your relatives, and quietly move you to the back row behind a tall uncle. Mercury retrograde means she'll do it twice.
Pluto in your 7th house squares the Sun, so anyone who tries to comfort you about the back row should expect a power struggle about cheekbones. Stand where she puts you. Smile like it was your idea.
DO
- Stand where she puts you
- Wear the good jacket anyway
- Smile like it was planned
DON'T
- Stand on a park bench
- Argue cheekbones with relatives
- Photoshop out the uncle
You'll miss the turn magnificently.
Your mother says you missed the turn, and you'd rather narrate forty minutes of cows than admit it.
Mars and Jupiter swell your first house while your ruler, the Sun, sits in your mother's house. This afternoon she says 'I think that was the turn,' and since the Sun can't miss turns, you announce the scenic route and narrate forty minutes of cows like you booked them. You buy a twenty-two-dollar farm-stand pie as evidence. Homework: tell the rearview mirror you missed the turn.
DO
- Say 'I missed the turn'
- Take the U-turn
- Hand your mother the GPS
DON'T
- Narrate the cows
- Buy the evidence pie
- Present the second silo as sequel
Today's material: Mars and big-mouthed Jupiter are both in your first house, inflating the self like a parade balloon, while your ruler, the Sun, sits down in the house of your mother. So naturally this afternoon you're driving her somewhere, and she says, gently, 'I think that was the turn.' It was the turn. You know it was the turn. Your face does not.
Here's the defense: the Sun does not miss turns. The Sun is where turns come from. So instead of a U-turn, which would be an admission, you announce the scenic route, and for forty minutes you narrate a county road you've never seen like you designed it. Cows, you'll say, as if you booked them. A silo. A second silo, presented as a sequel.
To make the detour look intentional, you'll stop at a farm stand and pay twenty-two dollars for a pie neither of you wanted. Tonight you tell a friend the story, and in your version your mother thanks you. Homework: look into the rearview mirror and say 'I missed the turn,' out loud, with no adjectives.
DO
- Say 'I missed the turn'
- Take the U-turn
- Hand your mother the GPS
DON'T
- Narrate the cows
- Buy the evidence pie
- Present the second silo as sequel
You'll buy a plastic throne.
You'll go out for fake blood and come home with a six-foot plastic throne, and guests must approach for chips.
You'll walk into a Halloween pop-up for fake blood and walk out with a six-foot gold prop throne, full price, strapped to your car roof. By tonight it faces the TV and you're receiving guests from it; anybody who wants chips has to approach. It's plastic. You'll call it gilded. Get off the throne and sit on the couch like the peasants.
DO
- Buy only the fake blood
- Measure the doorway first
- Let guests reach the chips
DON'T
- Call it gilded
- Order the matching scepter
- Knight the delivery driver
Royalty figures prominently. You'll walk into a Halloween pop-up for a bottle of fake blood and walk out with a six-foot gold prop throne, purchased at full price, strapped to your car roof. By tonight it's in the living room facing the TV, and you're receiving guests from it. Anybody who wants chips has to approach. The throne is plastic. You'll call it gilded.
A friend will sit in the throne while you're in the bathroom, and you'll treat it as a coup. Compatibility: low with that friend, high with anyone who bows ironically, because you'll miss the irony entirely.
Money matters come to a head late tonight when you order a matching scepter online. An unexpected windfall: a paper crown from a kids' meal, which you'll wear without a hint of a joke. Avoid doorways; the throne doesn't fit back through. Get off the throne and sit on the couch like the rest of the peasants. Lucky number: 6. Lucky color: Spray-Paint Gold.
DO
- Buy only the fake blood
- Measure the doorway first
- Let guests reach the chips
DON'T
- Call it gilded
- Order the matching scepter
- Knight the delivery driver
-
Virgo
You'll rake the neighbor's yard.
You'll rake the neighbor's entire yard to stop his leaves at the source, and he'll tip you five dollars.
Your ruler Mercury is retrograde in your 3rd house of neighbors and squaring Jupiter in your 12th house of hidden labor. Expect the neighbor's oak to re-cover your perfect lawn by mid-morning, and expect to fix it at the source: by afternoon you'll have raked his whole yard and sorted the bags by species. He'll mistake you for the service and tip you five dollars. Let his oak be his oak.
DO
- Stop at the property line
- Keep the five dollars
- Let the oak win
DON'T
- Sort leaves by species
- Explain you're not the service
- Leave the oak a note
Fussy little Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors, alongside the Sun and retrograde Venus, so whatever happens on your block today happens twice. Expect it to be leaves. By mid-morning your own lawn will be raked to a standard no HOA has ever dreamed of, and then the wind will deliver the neighbor's oak right back onto it, one smug leaf at a time.
Mercury squares Jupiter in your 12th house of hidden labor, where Mars sits too, which makes this a terrible day to solve problems at the source, and you absolutely will. Resist the urge to cross the property line with a rake. By afternoon you'll have raked his entire yard, bagged it, and sorted the bags by species. He'll come out, mistake you for the service, and tip you five dollars.
The Full Moon conjunct Saturn in your 8th house of other people's money says you'll keep the five dollars, because refusing would require a conversation. Put the rake down at the property line and let his oak be his oak.
DO
- Stop at the property line
- Keep the five dollars
- Let the oak win
DON'T
- Sort leaves by species
- Explain you're not the service
- Leave the oak a note
You'll correct the engagement announcement.
A cousin announces her engagement with a typo, and your thumb corrects it before anyone sees the ring.
Retrograde Mercury in your texting house, squared by Jupiter: a cousin announces her engagement to the family chat with the word 'finnally,' and before you've looked at the ring, your thumb sends 'Finally.' One n. The chat goes quiet like a dropped tray. This afternoon you scrub the grout instead of apologizing. Homework: send her a congratulations text with one typo, and leave it.
DO
- Look at the ring first
- Send hearts like everyone else
- Typo one word on purpose
DON'T
- Correct 'finnally' in public
- Scrub grout instead of apologizing
- Proofread the grandparent's voice memo
Material for today: Mercury, your ruler, retrograde in your house of siblings and texting, squared by Jupiter, which inflates whatever it touches. So sometime this morning a cousin announces her engagement to the family group chat, with a ring photo and the word 'finnally.' Two n's. Your body registers the typo before it registers the ring.
Notice the sequence. Eleven relatives send hearts. You type 'Congratulations!!' and delete it. You type it again. Then your thumb, acting on decades of unprocessed training, sends one word instead: 'Finally.' One n. With a period. It lands between an aunt's crying emoji and a grandparent's voice memo, and the chat goes quiet the way a restaurant goes quiet when somebody drops a tray.
This afternoon you process it the way you process everything, with a grout brush, scrubbing the shower until the tile apologizes, which is more than you've done. Homework: send her a congratulations text with one deliberate typo in it, and do not fix it. Let it be wrong in front of everyone. Sit in that.
DO
- Look at the ring first
- Send hearts like everyone else
- Typo one word on purpose
DON'T
- Correct 'finnally' in public
- Scrub grout instead of apologizing
- Proofread the grandparent's voice memo
Lemonade will cost you forty.
You'll audit a kid's lemonade stand this afternoon, and the second-grader will charge you forty dollars for it.
This afternoon you'll stop at a lemonade stand on the corner and ask about the ice. Then the pitcher. Then the dog. The second-grader in charge hears every word, nods once, and raises your price to forty dollars. The guy behind you pays a quarter. Pay the forty dollars and drink the damn lemonade without a single follow-up question.
DO
- Pay the forty dollars
- Drink it without inspecting
- Leave the kid a tip
DON'T
- Ask where the ice lives
- Mention the dog's paws
- Request a tour of the kitchen
A small business figures prominently. This afternoon you'll stop at a lemonade stand on the corner and ask the management about the ice. Then the pitcher. Then whether anybody washed up after petting the dog. The second-grader in charge will hear every word, nod once, and raise your price to forty dollars. The guy behind you pays a quarter. By the time you walk off, there's a new cardboard sign taped to the cooler: PRICES VARY BY ATTITUDE.
A neighbor will hand you a pen that clicks wrong, and you'll think about it until Monday. An unexpected windfall: a typo on the diner's specials board. You'll photograph it for your records. Friends will ask why you're in a mood. You won't say. They'll hear it from the second-grader.
Romance is in the air, and you'll be checking it for pollen. Compatibility: high with the second-grader, who also respects a system and is better at running one. Avoid any surface you haven't personally wiped. Pay the forty dollars and drink the damn lemonade without a single follow-up question. Lucky number: 40. Lucky color: Pulp Yellow.
DO
- Pay the forty dollars
- Drink it without inspecting
- Leave the kid a tip
DON'T
- Ask where the ice lives
- Mention the dog's paws
- Request a tour of the kitchen
-
Libra
Buyer will haggle below zero.
A Marketplace buyer will haggle your eighty-dollar armchair down until you're paying to deliver it with the ottoman.
Your ruler Venus is retrograde in your 2nd house of possessions, and the Full Moon sits on Saturn in your 7th house of contracts, which puts a hard negotiator across from somebody who apologizes to automatic doors. A Marketplace buyer will offer forty on your eighty-dollar armchair, then twenty, and by afternoon you've rented a U-Haul and thrown in the ottoman. Say 'no' out loud. Practice on a houseplant.
DO
- Say no out loud
- Practice on a houseplant
- Keep the ottoman
DON'T
- Offer to deliver
- Rent the U-Haul
- Thank him for the lowball
Your ruler Venus is retrograde in Scorpio in your 2nd house of money and possessions, fused to the Sun, which makes this a fine day to get rid of something and a disastrous day to name a price. Expect the armchair you listed online to finally get a bite. Be wary of the bite.
The Full Moon conjunct retrograde Saturn in your 7th house of contracts and open enemies puts a hard negotiator across from you, and you, a person who apologizes to automatic doors, are not built for this shit. A buyer on Facebook Marketplace will offer forty on an eighty-dollar chair. You'll say 'that works!' He'll offer twenty. You'll offer to deliver. With Venus squaring Pluto, by afternoon you've rented a U-Haul, thrown in the ottoman, and lost money selling furniture.
Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends mean everyone you know will hear the whole saga by tonight and laugh loudly, generously, at length. Next time a stranger lowballs you, say the word 'no' out loud. Practice on a houseplant first.
DO
- Say no out loud
- Practice on a houseplant
- Keep the ottoman
DON'T
- Offer to deliver
- Rent the U-Haul
- Thank him for the lowball
Goodbyes will outlast the party.
You start saying goodbye at tonight's party, and the goodbyes outlast the party, ending with you loading the host's dishwasher.
With the Moon on Saturn in your partner house and Mars crowding your friends, you decide to leave tonight's party and can't. Every goodbye becomes a conversation, including one with a man by the chips. Whoever drove gets four 'coming out now' texts. By the end you're loading the host's dishwasher until she hands you your coat. Homework: say 'bye' once, to the wrong person.
DO
- Say bye to one person
- Grab your own coat
- Text 'leaving' only once
DON'T
- Text 'coming out now' again
- Load the host's dishwasher
- Seek closure with the chip guy
Material: the Moon sits on stern old Saturn in your partnership house while Mars and Jupiter crowd your house of friends. That's a lot of people to keep happy, and you will try to keep every one of them. Tonight, at a friend's party, you decide to leave. This is where it goes wrong, because you can't just leave. Leaving means one person might feel unthanked, and you'd rather die in your coat.
So the goodbye begins. The host. The host's roommate. A man by the chips you met once, who apparently deserves closure. Each goodbye turns into a conversation, because ending a conversation would be rude. Meanwhile whoever drove you is idling outside, and you text 'coming out now' four times, each one less true than the last.
By the end, the party is over and you're still saying goodbye. You load the dishwasher to dodge one last farewell. Finally the host hands you your own coat and opens the door, the exact boundary you were waiting for somebody else to set. Homework: say 'bye' once, to one person, and let it be the wrong person.
DO
- Say bye to one person
- Grab your own coat
- Text 'leaving' only once
DON'T
- Text 'coming out now' again
- Load the host's dishwasher
- Seek closure with the chip guy
You'll leave with ten colors.
You'll go in for one nail color this afternoon and leave with ten, because the other bottles looked hurt.
You'll walk into a nail salon this afternoon to pick one color and leave with ten, one per finger, because every time you chose, the next bottle looked hurt. The technician stops asking around the ring finger. The pinky is lime. Strangers on the sidewalk will ask which team it's for. Next time, point at one bottle and close your eyes.
DO
- Point and close your eyes
- Let the technician choose
- Hide your hands at dinner
DON'T
- Apologize to the bottles
- Take the punch card
- Go back for the toes
Beauty matters come to a head. You'll walk into a nail salon this afternoon to pick one color and leave with ten, one per finger, because every time you chose, the next bottle looked hurt. The technician will stop asking somewhere around the ring finger. The pinky ends up lime, and nobody, including you, will know why. Strangers on the sidewalk will ask which team it's for.
A friend will ask where you want to eat. You'll say 'anywhere.' They'll pick a place, and you'll go quiet for an entire block, because it wasn't the anywhere you meant. A Scorpio will notice and save it for later. Compatibility: high with any waiter who just brings something.
Avoid contracts, menus and paint swatches. An unexpected windfall: the salon hands you a punch card, which is one more thing to have feelings about. Romance is in the air, but it's wearing a color you'd never pick. Next time, point at one bottle and close your eyes. Lucky number: 10. Lucky color: Undecided Mauve.
DO
- Point and close your eyes
- Let the technician choose
- Hide your hands at dinner
DON'T
- Apologize to the bottles
- Take the punch card
- Go back for the toes
-
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON
You'll answer a 2009 text.
You'll revive a dead flip phone tonight and finally answer a 2009 fight about a Linkin Park CD.
Retrograde Mercury in your 1st house goes looking for unfinished business, and your ruler Pluto, squaring the Sun from your 4th house of home and the past, knows exactly which junk drawer. A flip phone dead since 2009 will charge. By tonight you're rereading a fight about a borrowed Linkin Park CD, and the reply goes out to a stranger in Tucson. Unplug it. You were never getting the CD back.
DO
- Unplug the flip phone
- Let 2009 keep it
- Throw out the charger
DON'T
- Reread the whole thread
- Draft a rebuttal
- Text Tucson a follow-up
The Sun, retrograde Mercury and retrograde Venus are all crammed into your 1st house for Scorpio season, you sweet little landmine, and when Mercury backs up through your own sign it goes looking for unfinished business. Expect to reread something you said years ago and find that you were right.
Dig-everything-up Pluto, your ruler, sits in Aquarius in your 4th house of home and the past, squaring the Sun. Be wary of the junk drawer this afternoon. Under the takeout menus is a flip phone that died in 2009, and the charger, against all odds, is in there with it. Resist the urge to plug it in. By tonight you'll be scrolling a fight with a high-school friend over a borrowed Linkin Park CD, and you'll notice you never got the last word.
The Full Moon conjunct retrograde Saturn in your 6th house says the reply goes out anyway, late tonight, to a number that now belongs to a stranger in Tucson who will be very confused about Hybrid Theory. Unplug the phone. You were never getting that CD back.
DO
- Unplug the flip phone
- Let 2009 keep it
- Throw out the charger
DON'T
- Reread the whole thread
- Draft a rebuttal
- Text Tucson a follow-up
You'll bring three lies tonight.
At tonight's two-truths-and-a-lie, you offer three lies, everyone believes you, and you're furious nobody really knows you.
With the Sun, Mercury and Venus in your first house, the material is being seen, which you treat as an audit. At tonight's dinner party game of two truths and a lie, you offer three lies, the table guesses wrong, and you're furious nobody knows you. Late tonight you hide the truths in a notebook inside a notebook. Homework: tell one person your real favorite color.
DO
- Reveal your real favorite color
- Correct the Belgium thing
- Tell one boring truth
DON'T
- Offer three lies again
- Hide notebooks inside notebooks
- Furnish the Belgian apartment
Happy birthday season. The Sun, Mercury and Venus are all crammed into your first house, so the material today is being seen, which for you is roughly like being audited. Tonight, at a friend's dinner party, somebody suggests two truths and a lie. Everyone does cute ones. Then it's your turn, and you offer three lies, delivered flat, like a hostage reading coordinates.
The table confidently picks the false one. They're wrong, because all three are false, and here's what comes up for you: fury. Nobody knows you. Holy shit, nobody knows you. Notice that you've spent fifteen years building exactly this, and the minute it works you feel betrayed by it. The friend who walks you out says, 'I didn't know you lived in Belgium.' You didn't. You let it stand.
Late tonight you write the three actual truths in a notebook, then hide that notebook inside a second, more boring notebook. Homework: tell one person one true, unremarkable fact about yourself today, your real favorite color will do, and watch them survive knowing it.
DO
- Reveal your real favorite color
- Correct the Belgium thing
- Tell one boring truth
DON'T
- Offer three lies again
- Hide notebooks inside notebooks
- Furnish the Belgian apartment
Realtor will catch you snooping.
You'll tour an open house just to snoop, and the realtor will find you in the closet, taking notes.
It's your season, so naturally you'll spend it inside somebody else's house. This afternoon you'll tour a four-bedroom open house you could never afford, just to read the sellers' mail, check the medicine cabinet and open the nightstand. You pocket nothing. You remember everything. The realtor finds you in the primary closet, taking notes. Stay out of closets that aren't yours.
DO
- Stick to the public rooms
- Take one free cookie
- Leave the mail alone
DON'T
- Open the nightstand
- Photograph the medicine cabinet
- Make an offer to escape
It's your birthday season, so naturally you'll spend it inside somebody else's house. An open house figures prominently. This afternoon you'll tour a four-bedroom you couldn't afford with a lottery win and a heist, purely to read the sellers' mail. You'll check the medicine cabinet, the fridge and the bottom drawer of the nightstand. You'll pocket nothing. You'll remember everything. The realtor will find you in the primary closet, taking notes.
Romance is in the air, and you'll have a file on it by dinner. Somebody will ask your birthday, and you'll answer 'Why.' A friend is planning a small birthday thing; you already know the guest list, the cake flavor and who said no. An old flame posts a cake, and you'll zoom in to count the candles.
Money matters come to a head when the realtor asks if you're pre-approved and you say 'for what.' Compatibility: high with the realtor, who now knows what's in that nightstand too. Avoid sign-in sheets. Stay out of closets that aren't yours. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: Walk-In Closet Cedar.
DO
- Stick to the public rooms
- Take one free cookie
- Leave the mail alone
DON'T
- Open the nightstand
- Photograph the medicine cabinet
- Make an offer to escape
-
Sagittarius
Bride will take the microphone.
Your toast at a wedding detours through Patagonia into calling marriage a cage, and the bride takes the microphone.
Retrograde Mercury in your 12th house of things better left unsaid squares your ruler Jupiter, which makes this the worst Saturday to be handed a microphone at a wedding. Your quick toast will detour through a hostel in Patagonia and land on marriage as a beautiful cage, and the bride will take the microphone back while her grandmother gathers her purse. Say 'to the couple.' Sit down.
DO
- Say 'to the couple'
- Sit down immediately
- Hand back the microphone
DON'T
- Mention Patagonia
- Use the word 'cage'
- Open with 'So I was backpacking'
Your ruler Jupiter is in Leo in your 9th house of big beliefs, with Mars beside it, so today you'll hold opinions about the meaning of life at the volume of a leaf blower. Expect them to come out somewhere formal.
Retrograde Mercury sits in your 12th house of things better left unsaid and squares big-mouthed Jupiter, which makes this the worst possible Saturday to be handed a microphone, and October weddings being what they are, somebody will hand you one. Be wary of the phrase 'a quick toast.' You'll open on the couple, detour through a hostel in Patagonia, and arrive at your personal theory that marriage is a beautiful cage, which is when the bride's grandmother starts gathering her purse.
The Full Moon conjunct retrograde Saturn in your 5th house of romance and fun means the fun is over. Expect the bride to take the microphone back mid-sentence, and expect the DJ to cover your exit with Shania Twain. Say 'to the couple.' Sit down. Leave Patagonia in Patagonia.
DO
- Say 'to the couple'
- Sit down immediately
- Hand back the microphone
DON'T
- Mention Patagonia
- Use the word 'cage'
- Open with 'So I was backpacking'
Her sectional will live outside.
You promise a friend's move takes two hours, and by afternoon her sectional lives on the lawn.
Jupiter sits in your house of big beliefs, so when a friend mentions she's moving, you promise two hours, tops, in a borrowed Honda Fit. You call renting a truck giving in to fear, take her front door off its hinges, and still the sectional doesn't fit. By afternoon it's on her lawn and you're lecturing her about possessions. Homework: estimate something, then triple it, aloud.
DO
- Measure her doorway first
- Put her door back on
- Triple every estimate aloud
DON'T
- Promise 'two hours, tops'
- Call the truck fear
- Lecture her from her own sectional
Material for today: your ruler, Jupiter, sits in your house of big beliefs, and Mercury is retrograde in your house of secrets, so you'll believe something enormous and keep the logistics to yourself. This morning a friend mentions she's moving, and you volunteer before she finishes the sentence. 'Two hours, tops. I'll borrow a hatchback.' The hatchback is a Honda Fit. That's the presenting symptom: optimism as a load-bearing wall.
By noon you've told her twice that renting a truck is giving in to fear. Then comes the sectional. You'll insist it fits. You'll take her front door off its hinges to prove it fits. It won't fit, and for one second, under all that sunshine, something comes up for you: the possibility that the universe does not, in fact, provide. You'll bury it under a podcast quote.
By afternoon the sectional lives on her lawn, and you're giving a talk about how our possessions own us while she sits on it, owned. Homework: tonight, estimate how long something small will take, brushing your teeth will do, then triple the number and say it out loud like a grown-up.
DO
- Measure her doorway first
- Put her door back on
- Triple every estimate aloud
DON'T
- Promise 'two hours, tops'
- Call the truck fear
- Lecture her from her own sectional
You'll march with the band.
You'll follow the homecoming marching band out of a conversation and onto the field at halftime, holding somebody's flag.
Mid-sentence, you'll hear the homecoming marching band two streets over and walk off, leaving somebody on the porch holding your jacket. By this afternoon you're on the football field at halftime, in formation, holding a flag nobody issued you, and the band director decides it's less paperwork to let you finish. Give back the flag before somebody hands you a uniform.
DO
- Finish your sentence first
- Return the flag at halftime
- Collect your jacket eventually
DON'T
- Accept the feathered hat
- Sign up for winter guard
- Get measured for a uniform
A parade figures prominently. Mid-sentence, you'll hear the homecoming marching band two streets over and simply leave the conversation. The person you were talking to will still be on the porch, mid-story, holding your jacket. By the afternoon you'll be on a high school football field at halftime, in formation, holding a flag nobody issued you, and the band director will decide it's less paperwork to let you finish.
Romance is in the air, but it's moving at march tempo and you're already down the block. A date will ask what you're looking for. You'll say 'the next parade.' They'll laugh. You won't be joking. Money matters: you'll pay a stranger for a funnel cake and leave before it's fried.
A friend will call asking where you went, and you'll be two towns over in somebody's big feathered hat. Avoid any sign-up sheet with the word 'season' on it. Give back the flag before somebody hands you a uniform. Lucky number: 76. Lucky color: Band-Uniform Maroon.
DO
- Finish your sentence first
- Return the flag at halftime
- Collect your jacket eventually
DON'T
- Accept the feathered hat
- Sign up for winter guard
- Get measured for a uniform
-
Capricorn
You'll foreclose on a teenager.
At tonight's Monopoly game you'll lend at twelve percent and foreclose on a fourteen-year-old's Baltic Avenue.
Your ruler Saturn is retrograde in your 4th house under a Full Moon, so expect to host, with mandatory coasters. Retrograde Venus drags old friends back for board game night, and with Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of other people's money, every loan you make comes with terms. Late tonight you'll foreclose on a fourteen-year-old's Baltic Avenue at twelve percent. Forgive one loan. It's pink paper.
DO
- Forgive one loan
- Let the teenager win
- Put out the coasters
DON'T
- Compound interest per lap
- Charge rent on Free Parking
- Repossess the thimble
Cosmic accountant Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home, and tonight's Full Moon is sitting right on it, so your living room becomes a place of business. Expect to host. Expect coasters to be mandatory and the Wi-Fi password to be laminated.
Retrograde Venus and Mercury in your 11th house drag old friends back around your table for board game night, and somebody, God help them, will pick Monopoly. Mars trines Saturn, which is the most efficient aspect in the sky and the worst one to be across a board from. Be wary of your own generosity when a friend's teenager runs short of cash.
Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of other people's money mean every loan you extend tonight comes with terms. Twelve percent, compounding per lap. Late tonight you'll foreclose on a fourteen-year-old's Baltic Avenue, repossess his thimble, and assess a late fee nobody asked for. Forgive one loan. It's pink paper, and he's fourteen.
DO
- Forgive one loan
- Let the teenager win
- Put out the coasters
DON'T
- Compound interest per lap
- Charge rent on Free Parking
- Repossess the thimble
Masseuse will call in backup.
Your shoulders refuse to unclench at a gifted massage, and the masseuse fetches a colleague for a second opinion.
Retrograde Venus in your friends house means a friend has booked you a prepaid massage, which you take like a parking ticket. On the table your shoulders don't unclench, they negotiate, and the masseuse leaves and comes back with a colleague to consult. You apologize for being inefficient. Tonight your mother asks if you relaxed, and you send the receipt. Homework: drop your shoulders one inch.
DO
- Drop your shoulders one inch
- Thank your friend like a person
- Lie there without apologizing
DON'T
- Look up the massage price
- Send your mother the receipt
- Request a performance review
Material for today: Mercury and Venus are retrograde through your house of friends, which is how somebody who cares about you ends up doing something unforgivable. A friend has booked you a massage this afternoon. Prepaid. Nonrefundable. You thank her the way you'd thank a parking ticket, and then, quietly, you look up the price, so you know exactly how much relaxation you owe.
On the table, the issue becomes clear. Your shoulders don't unclench; they negotiate. The masseuse presses, and your trapezius files a counterclaim. Clinically, this is called armoring: muscle doing the job your feelings were never allowed to do. Partway through, she steps out and comes back with a colleague, and they both stand over you the way contractors stand over a cracked foundation. You apologize for being inefficient.
Tonight, with the Moon and your ruler, retrograde Saturn, both parked in your house of home and mother, your mother calls to ask if you relaxed. You send her the receipt. As proof. Homework: during the next phone call, let your shoulders drop one inch, tell nobody, and do not log it anywhere.
DO
- Drop your shoulders one inch
- Thank your friend like a person
- Lie there without apologizing
DON'T
- Look up the massage price
- Send your mother the receipt
- Request a performance review
Six-year-olds will unionize against you.
You'll coach six-year-olds like a quarterly review this morning, and by halftime the team will unionize against you.
You'll fill in as coach for a team of six-year-olds this morning and open with a quarterly review. By halftime you've cut the snack budget and benched the kid picking dandelions for underperformance. The team huddles without you and comes out with demands, written in orange-slice juice: more snacks, fewer you. Agree to every demand and give the dandelion kid back their spot.
DO
- Agree to every demand
- Restore the dandelion kid
- Double the orange slices
DON'T
- Expense the orange slices
- Say 'synergy' near children
- Hire replacement six-year-olds
Leadership figures prominently. You'll fill in as coach for a Saturday soccer team of six-year-olds and open with a quarterly review. By halftime you'll have cut the snack budget, benched the kid picking dandelions for underperformance and restructured the goalie position. The team will huddle without you. They'll come out with demands, written in orange-slice juice: more snacks, fewer you.
Money matters come to a head when you try to expense the orange slices. A parent will hand you a juice box and say 'relax.' You'll put it on the calendar for next quarter. Romance is in the air, but you've scheduled it for Thursday and moved it twice.
A stranger will ask what you do for fun, and you'll gesture at the field like it proves something. The assistant coach will quit by text, and you'll ask for two weeks' notice. Avoid saying 'synergy' within fifty feet of a child. Agree to every demand and give the dandelion kid back their starting spot. Lucky number: 6. Lucky color: Clipboard Brown.
DO
- Agree to every demand
- Restore the dandelion kid
- Double the orange slices
DON'T
- Expense the orange slices
- Say 'synergy' near children
- Hire replacement six-year-olds
-
Aquarius
Escape-room staff will evict you.
You'll skip every clue in tonight's escape room, leave through the air vent, and get evicted with a coupon.
Your ruler Uranus is retrograde in your 5th house of fun you can't afford, and Pluto sits in your 1st convinced every system is badly designed. Be wary of tonight's escape room. You'll call the cipher derivative, skip every clue, unscrew the air vent with a dime, and crawl out into the staff break room. They'll evict you with a coupon. Solve one puzzle the way it wants, as a gift.
DO
- Use the clues provided
- Let somebody else solve something
- Accept the coupon graciously
DON'T
- Critique the cipher aloud
- Crawl into any vent
- Email the owner a redesign
Pluto and the North Node are both parked in Aquarius in your 1st house, with the Sun squaring Pluto and Uranus trining it, which is astrologer for: every system around you is badly designed and only you can see the vent. Expect to be right about something nobody asked you to look at.
Your ruler Uranus is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of fun you can't afford, so tonight's escape room is a bad idea and you'll go anyway. Resist the urge to critique the puzzle design out loud. You won't. Within ten minutes you'll call the cipher derivative, skip every clue, unscrew the air vent with a dime and crawl out into the staff break room, where somebody is microwaving a burrito. They'll end your game and evict you, politely, with a coupon.
Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house make whoever came with you loud, competitive and desperate to have solved something. They didn't get to. Next time, solve one puzzle the way it wants to be solved, as a gift.
DO
- Use the clues provided
- Let somebody else solve something
- Accept the coupon graciously
DON'T
- Critique the cipher aloud
- Crawl into any vent
- Email the owner a redesign
Date will agree you're avoidant.
A date says they like you over tacos, and you explain attachment theory until they agree you're avoidant.
Mars and Jupiter crowd your partnership house, so over tacos tonight a date says, 'I think I'm really starting to like you.' You say 'Interesting,' then deliver ten minutes on attachment theory with hand diagrams and diagnose yourself, accurately, as avoidant. Your date agrees and asks for the check. Homework: text them one sentence with a feeling in it and no citation.
DO
- Say one feeling back
- Put the hand diagrams away
- Text without a footnote
DON'T
- Answer affection with 'Interesting'
- Send your sibling a study
- Diagnose yourself in third person
Material: Mars and Jupiter are in your partnership house, which means someone is going to approach you with an actual feeling, and demoted ex-planet Pluto is in your own sign, which means you'll treat it like a hostile takeover. Tonight, over tacos, a date leans in and says, 'I think I'm really starting to like you.' A normal person would say something back. You say, 'Interesting.'
Then the defense goes up, and it goes up as a lecture. For ten uninterrupted minutes you explain attachment theory to your date: secure, anxious, avoidant, the Strange Situation experiment, with hand diagrams. You diagnose yourself as avoidant, accurately, in the third person. Your date listens politely, agrees with the diagnosis, and asks the server for the check and a to-go box.
With the Moon passing through your sibling house, you don't tell a sibling it went badly; you text them a link to a 2009 study. They reply with a thumbs-up, which you'll find emotionally adequate. Homework: send the date one sentence that contains a feeling and no citation. If you add a footnote, it doesn't count.
DO
- Say one feeling back
- Put the hand diagrams away
- Text without a footnote
DON'T
- Answer affection with 'Interesting'
- Send your sibling a study
- Diagnose yourself in third person
You'll liberate the grocery lobsters.
You'll buy four grocery-store lobsters to free them this afternoon, and tonight the revolution lives in your bathtub.
At the grocery store this afternoon you'll stare into the lobster tank long enough to radicalize, then buy all four to set them free. The nearest water is a freshwater creek behind the Applebee's, as a teenager at the seafood counter slowly explains. By tonight the revolution lives in your bathtub. Leave the tank alone and buy the tortillas you came for.
DO
- Buy only the tortillas
- Walk past the seafood counter
- Shower somewhere else tonight
DON'T
- Read the tank's little sign
- Price saltwater by the gallon
- Draft a statement for lobsters
Liberation figures prominently. At the grocery store this afternoon you'll stand at the lobster tank long enough to radicalize yourself, then buy all four to set them free. The nearest water is a freshwater creek behind the Applebee's. A teenager at the seafood counter will explain this, slowly. By tonight the revolution lives in your bathtub, it has claws, and you're showering at the gym.
Romance is in the air, but you'll be busy drafting a statement on behalf of the lobsters. A date will ask what you're into lately. You'll say 'direct action,' and mean the tank. They'll assume something cooler.
Money matters come to a head when you price saltwater by the gallon. A neighbor will hear clicking through the wall and choose not to ask. Compatibility: high with crustaceans, low with anyone who owns a bib. Leave the tank alone and buy the tortillas you came for. Lucky number: 4. Lucky color: Lobster-Tank Algae Green.
DO
- Buy only the tortillas
- Walk past the seafood counter
- Shower somewhere else tonight
DON'T
- Read the tank's little sign
- Price saltwater by the gallon
- Draft a statement for lobsters
-
Pisces
Pity pumpkin will move in.
You'll pay full price for the saddest pumpkin in the patch, and tonight it gets a blanket.
Your ruler Neptune is retrograde in your 2nd house of money with the Full Moon and Saturn, so your wallet opens on feelings alone. Be wary of the pumpkin patch: one lumpy gray reject will lean against a hay bale, and you'll pay full price for it. By tonight it has a name, a blanket and a warm bath. Carve it. It's a squash.
DO
- Carve the pumpkin
- Pick a round one
- Remember it's a squash
DON'T
- Name the reject
- Pay for the untaken hayride
- Read it a bedtime story
Fog-machine Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money and possessions, with tonight's Full Moon and retrograde Saturn crowded in beside it, so your wallet opens on feelings alone today. Be wary of the pumpkin patch. Among a thousand cheerful orange pumpkins there will be one lumpy gray reject slumped against a hay bale, and Neptune will make eye contact on its behalf. Expect to pay full price for it, plus the hayride you didn't take.
Retrograde Venus and Mercury in your 9th house of big beliefs mean the drive home becomes a theology seminar. By the second stoplight the pumpkin has a backstory, a name and a dignity the round ones never earned, and you've decided the farmers who sorted it out are the real monsters.
With Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of chores, tonight's housework is a warm bath for a gourd and a fleece blanket on the good chair. The pity pumpkin has moved in. Carve it. It's a squash.
DO
- Carve the pumpkin
- Pick a round one
- Remember it's a squash
DON'T
- Name the reject
- Pay for the untaken hayride
- Read it a bedtime story
Eight-year-old will hand you napkins.
You sob for the villain octopus at this afternoon's kids' movie, and the eight-year-old beside you hands you napkins.
Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde, so this afternoon you see an animated kids' movie alone, and where everyone else sees a villain octopus, you see his childhood. When the heroes win, the kids cheer and you weep for the octopus, and the eight-year-old next to you passes you napkins and pats your arm. Homework: say one nice thing about the hero, out loud.
DO
- Praise the hero out loud
- Accept the napkins graciously
- Thank the eight-year-old
DON'T
- Weep through the victory song
- Explain the octopus's childhood to him
- Write the octopus a small apartment
Material: your ruler, foggy old Neptune, is retrograde, and Mars and Jupiter are stirring up your house of routine, so even a quiet Saturday turns into group therapy you didn't sign up for. This afternoon you buy a ticket to an animated kids' movie, alone, which is already a statement. The villain is a lonely octopus who wants to flood the aquarium. Everybody else sees a bad guy. You see his childhood.
Watch what happens. When the heroes win, the kids cheer and you weep, openly, for the octopus. This is projection, and it is loud. The eight-year-old in the next seat stops eating his popcorn, considers you, and passes over a fistful of napkins. He pats your arm once. He is handling this better than you, and he's eight.
Late tonight you write fan fiction in your Notes app where the octopus gets therapy and a small apartment near the water, and you feel better than you have all week. Homework: say one nice thing about the hero, out loud. He saved an entire aquarium. Somebody has to.
DO
- Praise the hero out loud
- Accept the napkins graciously
- Thank the eight-year-old
DON'T
- Weep through the victory song
- Explain the octopus's childhood to him
- Write the octopus a small apartment
Showroom sofa will become home.
You'll go into IKEA for tealights, drift off the arrows, and security will find you living in a showroom.
You'll walk into IKEA for tealights and drift off the arrows near the showroom kitchens. By closing you're living there: reading a fake Swedish book on a display sofa, a throw over your knees, a lamp you've already named. Security finds you, and you ask them to keep it down. Follow the arrows on the floor all the way to the registers.
DO
- Follow the floor arrows
- Buy the tealights only
- Leave the lamp unnamed
DON'T
- Take off your shoes
- Cry over the hot dog
- Forward your mail there
Home matters come to a head. You'll walk into IKEA for tealights and drift off the arrows somewhere around the showroom kitchens. By closing you'll be living there: reading a fake Swedish book on a display sofa, a throw blanket over your knees, a lamp you've already named. Security will find you, and you'll ask them to keep it down.
An unexpected windfall: a dollar hot dog. You'll cry about how affordable it is, quietly, in a way only the hot dog understands. A friend texts 'where are you?' and you send back a photo of a kitchen that belongs to nobody. A stranger will ask you where the exit is, and you'll realize you never wanted one.
Romance is in the air, specifically in the bedroom section, between you and a mattress named like a fjord. Compatibility: high with the mattress. Avoid the ball pit; you'll decide it's a metaphor. Follow the arrows on the floor all the way to the registers. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: Flat-Pack Birch.
DO
- Follow the floor arrows
- Buy the tealights only
- Leave the lamp unnamed
DON'T
- Take off your shoes
- Cry over the hot dog
- Forward your mail there
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-24 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 1.3° Scorpio |
|---|---|
| Moon | 12.0° Aries |
| Mercury | 21.0° Scorpio ℞ |
| Venus | 0.4° Scorpio ℞ |
| Mars | 14.9° Leo |
| Jupiter | 23.4° Leo |
| Saturn | 9.8° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 4.9° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.2° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.5° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.8°, easy)
- Sun conjunct Venus (0.9°, fused)
- Sun square Pluto (1.8°, tense)
- Uranus trine Pluto (1.8°, flowing)
- Mercury square Jupiter (2.4°, tense)
- Venus square Pluto (2.7°, tense)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Moon conjunct Saturn (2.3°, fused)
- Moon trine Mars (2.8°, flowing)
- Mars trine Saturn (5.1°, 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 Saturday, October 24, 2026.