FILED SUNDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2026

ROAST-O-SCOPE

Scorpio season
Full Moon in Aries
Moon into Taurus today
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.

THE DOSE

One paragraph. The reading, compressed.

Aries

Mar 21 – Apr 19 · Fire · ruled by Mars
You'll try to win savasana.

With the Full Moon in your sign, you'll race through savasana and get asked to lie back down.
With the Full Moon and retrograde Saturn both parked in your 1st house, your body wants speed and the sky wants it flat on a mat. Expect a Sunday yoga class, and be warned that savasana is not a race; finishing first gets you asked to lie back down. Retrograde Venus in your 7th wants a slow day. Lie down, shut up, and lose to the whole room.
DO
Lie flat until the bell
Breathe at a normal volume
Let the room finish first
DON'T
Time your savasana
Buy the grip socks
Ask the instructor who won
With the Full Moon in Aries lighting up your 1st house and hall-monitor Saturn retrograde right beside it, your body wants to go fast and the sky wants it horizontal. Expect to end up on a yoga mat this morning, and be warned: savasana is not a race. Resist the urge to sit up early and look around for the scoreboard. When the instructor asks you to lie back down, that is not a medal.

Dawdling, pouting Venus is retrograde in your 7th house of partners and staring straight across at that Full Moon, so anyone sharing your Sunday will want it slow: a farmers market, a long walk, a nap with intent. This is not the day to set the pace. A partner may ask if you're relaxed yet. Answering 'YES' at that volume settles it.

Your red-faced ruler Mars sits in Leo in your 5th house of fun you can't afford, trining Saturn, so the competitive streak goes shopping: a ten-class pass, a better mat, the instructor's own brand of grip socks. Be wary of anything sold at the front desk. Lie down, shut up, and lose to the whole damn room.
DO
Lie flat until the bell
Breathe at a normal volume
Let the room finish first
DON'T
Time your savasana
Buy the grip socks
Ask the instructor who won
Taquito will replace your brunch.

You walk out on a forty-minute brunch wait, eat a cold taquito in the parking lot, and call it decisive.
A Full Moon in your sign puts your impulses on high beams, and this morning a forty-minute brunch wait triggers the ancient terror of a line. Your friends sit. You call it 'decisive' and eat a cold gas-station taquito alone in the parking lot. Tonight the hollandaise photos arrive. Homework: stand in the slowest checkout line and stay there, even when a fresh register calls your name.
DO
Wait the forty minutes
Order the hollandaise
Pick the slowest checkout line
DON'T
Call leaving 'decisive'
Switch lanes when a register opens
Trust a taquito's warm exterior
The material we're working with today is a Full Moon sitting squarely in your sign, lighting every impulse you own like a parking garage. This morning a brunch host quotes a forty-minute wait, and what comes up for you isn't hunger. It's the ancient, preverbal terror of a line. Your friends sit down on the bench. You call it 'decisive' and walk out.

By late morning you're eating a gas-station taquito alone in the parking lot, texting the group 'this is better anyway.' Note the pattern, because it's a classic: you would rather lose fast than win slowly. The taquito is cold in the middle. You'll call it fine. Your stomach files a dissenting opinion this afternoon, and you'll ignore that too, also quickly.

Tonight the brunch photos arrive: hollandaise, a window table, a waiter who clearly loved them, all of it thirty-eight minutes away from you. You'll pick a fight about the recycling instead of feeling it. That isn't anger, champ. It's regret in a bike helmet. Homework: stand in the slowest checkout line this week and stay there, even when a fresh register opens and calls your name.
DO
Wait the forty minutes
Order the hollandaise
Pick the slowest checkout line
DON'T
Call leaving 'decisive'
Switch lanes when a register opens
Trust a taquito's warm exterior
You'll scare the chainsaw guy.

You sprint through tonight's haunted house so fast the chainsaw guy drops his chainsaw and radios his supervisor.
Full Moon in your sign, and tonight a haunted house figures prominently. You go in first, sprint the whole thing, and scare the man with the chainsaw so badly he drops it and radios for his supervisor. The teenage witch at the exit asks you to put down the hay bale. Walk the next haunted house like a person. Lucky number: 1, obviously.
DO
Let the zombies go first
Read the gas pump screen
Walk the haunted house
DON'T
Sign anything today
Pick up the hay bale
Challenge the chainsaw guy to a rematch
Full Moon in your sign! Romance is in the air, and you will try to beat it there. A date suggests 'something low-key,' and you hear 'race.' A stranger compliments your jacket at the farmers market, and you thank him so hard he backs into the kettle corn.

Money matters come to a head at the gas station, where you'll start pumping before the screen finishes saying hello, and it charges you twice out of spite. Avoid signing contracts. Avoid signing anything. You sign like you're keying a car.

Tonight, a haunted house figures prominently. You go in first, sprint the whole thing, and scare the man with the chainsaw so badly he drops it and radios for his supervisor. The teenage witch at the exit asks you to put down the hay bale. Compatibility: high with slow-blinking Taurus, still in the parking lot. Walk the next haunted house like a person. Lucky number: 1, obviously. Lucky color: hazard-vest orange.
DO
Let the zombies go first
Read the gas pump screen
Walk the haunted house
DON'T
Sign anything today
Pick up the hay bale
Challenge the chainsaw guy to a rematch
Taurus

Apr 20 – May 20 · Earth · ruled by Venus
Friday's lunch won't survive Sunday.

Retrograde Venus in your chore house turns meal prep backward: five lunches packed this afternoon, five containers in tonight's sink.
With your ruler Venus retrograde in your 6th house of routine, today's meal prep runs backward. Expect to pack five lunches into five matching containers this afternoon, and expect greedy Jupiter in your 4th to keep the fridge door swinging until all five are in the sink by tonight. That fork at the counter isn't tasting for seasoning. Wash the containers and buy a sandwich Monday.
DO
Pack five lunches anyway
Label them by weekday
Buy Monday's sandwich now
DON'T
Stand at the open fridge
Call it tasting for seasoning
Eat Friday on a Sunday
Your sweet-toothed ruler Venus is retrograde in your 6th house of chores and routine, fused to the Sun and squaring Pluto, which makes today's meal prep a compulsion with a lid. Expect to portion five lunches into five matching containers this afternoon, and be wary of the word 'portion.' Retrograde means the plan runs backward: by tonight all five are in the sink and Friday's lunch never sees Friday.

Greedy Jupiter and short-fused Mars are both camped in Leo in your 4th house of home, so the kitchen becomes the most important room in the zodiac. Expect the fridge door to open more times than a Walgreens. Resist the urge to call standing at the counter with a fork 'tasting for seasoning.' It's eating. It's been eating since lunch.

The Moon spends the day in your 12th house of secrets before sliding into Taurus late tonight, so the evidence will be quiet and the guilt will arrive right behind it. This is not the day to tell anyone your lunches are handled. Wash all five containers, stack them by size, and buy a sandwich Monday like the rest of the damned.
DO
Pack five lunches anyway
Label them by weekday
Buy Monday's sandwich now
DON'T
Stand at the open fridge
Call it tasting for seasoning
Eat Friday on a Sunday
Your phone will finally update.

Your phone finally installs the update overnight, the flashlight moves half an inch, and you grieve until dinner.
Backward Venus has you guarding your routine, and overnight your phone ends four hundred days of 'Remind Me Tomorrow' and installs the update. This morning the flashlight button has moved half an inch, and you go mountain-quiet until dinner. By afternoon you've joined a forum of iOS 14 holdouts. Homework: leave one app where the update put it until Tuesday.
DO
Find the new flashlight
Leave one app alone
Let somebody call it nicer
DON'T
Go mountain-quiet until dinner
Google how to downgrade
Swear loyalty to iOS 14
Today's material: backward-walking Venus, your ruler, retrograde through your house of routine, and the Moon slouching into your sign late tonight like a houseguest who touches things. Overnight, after four hundred days of 'Remind Me Tomorrow,' your phone stops asking and installs the update. This morning the flashlight button has moved half an inch. What comes up for you is grief.

Watch the defense go up. When somebody leans over and says the new layout is 'actually nicer,' you won't argue. You'll go quiet, the deep geological quiet of a mountain that has been asked to scoot over, and it lasts until dinner. You aren't upset about the phone, bull. You're upset that it didn't ask.

This afternoon you'll spend two hours on a forum learning how to downgrade, find eleven strangers who still run iOS 14 out of principle, and feel seen for the first time since 2019. Nobody downgrades. You'll all just suffer together, magnificently. Homework: leave one app exactly where the update put it until Tuesday. One app. It'll feel like moving apartments. Do it anyway.
DO
Find the new flashlight
Leave one app alone
Let somebody call it nicer
DON'T
Go mountain-quiet until dinner
Google how to downgrade
Swear loyalty to iOS 14
Your recliner will get recalled.

Your recliner gets recalled this afternoon, and you talk the courier down to taking only the cupholder.
A recall notice arrives for your recliner. It says 'stop using immediately.' You read it in the recliner. By afternoon a courier is standing in your living room with a dolly, and you'll negotiate him down to taking the cupholder. An unexpected windfall: eleven dollars in the cushions. Defend the chair. Lucky number: 0, the inches you'll move.
DO
Read the recall notice seated
Surrender the cupholder only
Dig through the cushions
DON'T
Sign the recall form
Help the neighbor move anything
Let the courier sit down
The Moon slides into your sign tonight, but you got there first and you are not moving. A recall notice arrives for your recliner. It says 'stop using immediately.' You read it in the recliner. By afternoon a courier from the manufacturer is standing in your living room with a dolly, and you'll negotiate him down to taking the cupholder.

Romance is in the air. Do not get up for it. Someone sweet offers you the last bite of pie at dinner, you accept, and the relationship enters a new phase called 'owing.' A remote-hoarding Scorpio figures prominently, mostly by reaching. Compatibility: high with anyone who brings the snacks to you.

A neighbor asks for help moving a couch. You'll say yes and then simply never stand up. An unexpected windfall: eleven dollars and a linty Tic Tac in the cushions. Avoid signing contracts, especially the recall form. Defend the chair. Lucky number: 0, the inches you'll move today. Lucky color: corduroy.
DO
Read the recall notice seated
Surrender the cupholder only
Dig through the cushions
DON'T
Sign the recall form
Help the neighbor move anything
Let the courier sit down
Gemini

May 21 – Jun 20 · Air · ruled by Mercury
Twelve minutes will earn 'k.'

Retrograde Mercury squares Jupiter in your texting house: you'll send a twelve-minute voice memo and get back 'k.'
With retrograde Mercury squaring Mars and Jupiter in your 3rd house of texting, expect a simple 'sounds good' to somebody who shares your last name to leave your phone this afternoon as a twelve-minute voice memo, complete with tangents, an impression and a sneeze. What comes back is 'k.' Nobody listened to the whole thing. Type it next time, one sentence, no voices.
DO
Type it out
Keep it to one sentence
Delete the second voice
DON'T
Hold the microphone button
Ask if they listened
Reply 'k' to their 'k'
With hot-headed Mars and overgrown Jupiter both in your 3rd house of siblings and texting, and your twitchy ruler Mercury retrograde and squaring them both, expect a message to somebody who shares your last name to get badly out of hand. You'll mean to send 'sounds good.' Be wary of the microphone button. What leaves your phone this afternoon is a twelve-minute voice memo with two tangents, an impression and a sneeze, and what comes back is 'k.'

Retrograde Mercury in your 6th house of work routine means the Sunday scaries arrive early and in two voices. Expect one of you to draft Monday's to-do list and the other to rename it. Resist the urge to answer a work email before bed just to prove you're ahead; retrograde Mercury quietly turns every reply into a reply-all.

The Full Moon and retrograde Saturn sit together in your 11th house of friends, so the group chat will know about the memo by dinner, and somebody will have clipped the sneeze. This is not the day to ask whether anyone listened to the whole thing. Nobody did. Say it in one sentence, type it, and leave out the voices.
DO
Type it out
Keep it to one sentence
Delete the second voice
DON'T
Hold the microphone button
Ask if they listened
Reply 'k' to their 'k'
Sibling will guess your hypothetical.

A friend's secret lasts until mid-afternoon, when you pitch it to a sibling as a hypothetical, and they guess instantly.
Mercury squares Jupiter, so everything you say travels. On a morning walk a friend says 'don't tell anyone,' and the pressure builds behind your molars until mid-afternoon, when you call a sibling with a hypothetical about 'a friend of a friend,' including her car. Your sibling guesses in four seconds. Homework: write the next secret on a Post-it and eat it.
DO
Hold it past mid-afternoon
Leave out her car
Eat the Post-it
DON'T
Say 'a friend of a friend'
Answer the cousin's question with a GIF
Deny and confirm simultaneously
Our material today: backpedaling Mercury, your ruler, squaring Jupiter, so whatever you say travels farther than you meant, which for you is already the next county. On a walk this morning, a friend tells you something private and adds 'don't tell anyone.' What comes up for you isn't loyalty. It's pressure, building behind the molars, like a sneeze with a plot.

You last until mid-afternoon, a personal record, and we should acknowledge that. Then you call a sibling and present it as a hypothetical about 'a friend of a friend,' with details so specific you mention her car. Your sibling guesses who in four seconds. You deny it and confirm it in the same sentence.

Tonight the friend texts 'weird, my cousin just asked me about it,' and you answer with a GIF, because a GIF is a confession nobody can quote in court. Here's the pattern: you don't keep secrets, you keep them circulating. Homework: write the next secret you're told on a Post-it, fold it twice, and eat it. It's the only vault you've got that doesn't text.
DO
Hold it past mid-afternoon
Leave out her car
Eat the Post-it
DON'T
Say 'a friend of a friend'
Answer the cousin's question with a GIF
Deny and confirm simultaneously
Parrot will repeat you tonight.

You trash-talk the host's boyfriend to her parrot, and by dessert the bird does both versions in your voice.
A friend's parrot figures prominently. Before tonight's dinner party you'll tell her one thing about her new boyfriend and tell the bird the real thing. By dessert the parrot is doing both versions, in your voice, with your laugh. Everyone recognizes the laugh. Stop talking near animals. Lucky number: 2, or 3, depending who's asking.
DO
Compliment the boyfriend once
Check your scheduled messages
Keep one name per date
DON'T
Confide in the bird
Sign as two people
Laugh at the parrot's impression
A friend's parrot figures prominently. Before tonight's dinner party you'll stand in her kitchen saying one thing about her new boyfriend to her face and the real thing to the bird. By dessert the parrot is doing both versions, in your voice, with your laugh. Everyone at the table recognizes the laugh.

An unexpected message arrives. It's from you, scheduled last month, to someone you have since decided you hate. A coworker texts to ask how your weekend was, and you'll send the trailer, the director's cut and a sequel. Avoid signing contracts. You'll sign as two people, and both of you will want out.

Romance is in the air, and you'll give it a different name than you gave the last one. Somebody's golden retriever will look at you like it knows. Compatibility: high with anyone who has never owned a bird. Stop talking near animals. Lucky number: 2, or 3, depending who's asking. Lucky color: whatever the person in front of you is wearing.
DO
Compliment the boyfriend once
Check your scheduled messages
Keep one name per date
DON'T
Confide in the bird
Sign as two people
Laugh at the parrot's impression
Cancer

Jun 21 – Jul 22 · Water · ruled by Moon
Muffins will outlive Monday's meeting.

The Full Moon in your career house bakes four dozen muffins for a meeting that's canceled before they cool.
With your ruler the Moon full in your 10th house of career, your mothering instincts clock in on a Sunday. Expect four dozen blueberry muffins for Monday's meeting, made with ninety dollars of Whole Foods berries courtesy of Jupiter in your money house. Expect the meeting to be canceled by email late tonight, before the last tray cools. Freeze forty-seven. Don't cry into the muffins.
DO
Bake two dozen, tops
Check your email first
Freeze forty-seven muffins
DON'T
Buy the pumpkin liners
Make little name cards
Cry into the batter
Your overwrought ruler the Moon goes full in Aries in your 10th house of career today, right beside retrograde Saturn, so your nurturing instincts clock in on a Sunday. Expect an urge to bake for Monday's meeting. Resist the urge to make it four dozen. You will make it four dozen, blueberry and lemon-poppy, with little name cards.

Big-spending Jupiter and red-blooded Mars in your 2nd house of money turn a muffin errand into a ninety-dollar trip to Whole Foods, where you'll buy the organic blueberries because Monday deserves organic. Be wary of the paper liners with tiny pumpkins on them; they're going in the cart regardless.

The Moon in your 10th opposes retrograde Venus in your 4th house of home, so all the warmth you baked this afternoon has nowhere to land: expect Monday's meeting to be canceled by email late tonight, while the last tray is still cooling. Do not cry into the muffins. Freeze forty-seven, eat one standing up, and tell nobody at work they almost existed.
DO
Bake two dozen, tops
Check your email first
Freeze forty-seven muffins
DON'T
Buy the pumpkin liners
Make little name cards
Cry into the batter
Backup pot roast rides along.

A friend hosts Sunday dinner to give you a break, and you bring a backup pot roast in your trunk.
The Full Moon floodlights your role in the group, and this morning a friend offers to host Sunday dinner 'to give you a break.' It isn't relief. By afternoon a backup pot roast rides in your trunk, and at her table you refill full glasses and sit like a lifeguard. Homework: at the next dinner you didn't cook, keep both hands on your own plate.
DO
Let her salt the potatoes
Sit like a guest
Leave the cooler home
DON'T
Refill full glasses
Adjust her trivets
Eat pot roast in the driveway
Your ruler, a Full Moon, blazes in your house of reputation today, so whatever role you play in the group gets floodlit. This morning a friend announces she's hosting Sunday dinner this time, 'to give you a break.' Notice what comes up. It isn't relief. It's the panic of a mother bird watching somebody else feed her chicks.

By this afternoon there's a backup pot roast in a cooler in your trunk, 'in case.' At her place you'll refill glasses that aren't empty, adjust a trivet, and ask whether she salted the potatoes in a tone that implies a crime. She'll ask you to sit. You'll sit like a lifeguard.

The dinner is good. That's the wound. Driving home tonight, you'll pull into your own driveway and eat cold pot roast out of the cooler with your hands, because being needed is the only love you've ever trusted, you sentimental crustacean. Homework: at the next dinner you didn't cook, keep both hands on your own plate for the whole meal, where the host can see them.
DO
Let her salt the potatoes
Sit like a guest
Leave the cooler home
DON'T
Refill full glasses
Adjust her trivets
Eat pot roast in the driveway
Self-checkout will make you cry.

The self-checkout thanks you this afternoon, you sob into the bagging area, and it flags you as an unexpected item.
The self-checkout thanks you for shopping this afternoon, and nobody has thanked you for anything since Tuesday, so you'll cry into the bagging area until the machine announces 'unexpected item.' The unexpected item is you. An attendant comes over with a key and a tissue. Stop thanking machines back. Lucky color: tissue-box floral.
DO
Bring tissues to the grocery store
Let the attendant help
Hang up within the hour
DON'T
Hug the card reader
Go looking for the container
Tell the machine 'you too'
Emotions run high at the grocery store this afternoon. The self-checkout thanks you for shopping, and nobody has thanked you for anything since Tuesday, so you'll stand there crying into the bagging area until the machine announces 'unexpected item.' The unexpected item is you. An attendant comes over with a key and a tissue.

A family member calls with a quick question and stays on for an hour. You'll make soup about it. An unexpected windfall: the lid to a container you threw out in 2021, and you'll miss the container all over again. Avoid signing contracts; the signature line will look so trusting you'll need a minute.

Romance is in the air, but it smells like your mother's kitchen, which is a problem. A hug-rationing Capricorn figures prominently. A neighbor's kid waves at you from a bike, and you'll think about it until bedtime. Compatibility: high with the Roomba, which also bumps into things and keeps going. Stop thanking machines back. Lucky number: 9, the times you'll say 'no, thank YOU.' Lucky color: tissue-box floral.
DO
Bring tissues to the grocery store
Let the attendant help
Hang up within the hour
DON'T
Hug the card reader
Go looking for the container
Tell the machine 'you too'
Leo

Jul 23 – Aug 22 · Fire · ruled by Sun
You'll recut the family videos.

Retrograde Mercury in your home house digs up camcorder tapes, and you'll recut thirty years into a reel about you.
Retrograde Mercury in your 4th house of the past squares Jupiter in your 1st, so expect the old camcorder tapes to come out of a closet and the editing to go to your head. By afternoon, thirty years of family footage is a twelve-minute reel where every other birthday is a cutaway and your cannonball plays in slow motion. Cut it to nine minutes and give somebody else a line.
DO
Give somebody else a line
Cut it to nine minutes
Label the tapes, then stop
DON'T
Add slow motion
Ask your audience for notes
Hold a red-carpet premiere in the den
Retrograde, rummaging Mercury in your 4th house of home and the past squares Jupiter in your 1st, so expect the old camcorder tapes to come out of a closet today and the editing to go straight to your head. Be wary of the phrase 'just digitizing them.' By afternoon, thirty years of family footage becomes a twelve-minute reel in which every birthday that isn't yours is a cutaway.

With swaggering Mars and inflatable Jupiter both parked in Leo in your 1st house, resist the urge to add slow motion. You'll add slow motion. A cannonball from 1997 deserves it, a school play where you had one line deserves three angles, and Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On' will play over the credits with nobody's permission.

Your ruler the Sun squares smug Pluto in your 7th house of partners, so whoever shares your couch tonight will be made to watch the premiere and will be quizzed afterward. This is not the day to ask for notes. Cut the reel to nine minutes, put one other person in it, and give them a line.
DO
Give somebody else a line
Cut it to nine minutes
Label the tapes, then stop
DON'T
Add slow motion
Ask your audience for notes
Hold a red-carpet premiere in the den
A puppy will upstage you.

A friend's new puppy steals the park this afternoon, and its belly beats your cartwheel in a landslide.
Jupiter in your sign enlarges the old wound, and this afternoon a friend brings a nine-week-old golden retriever to the park. Every head turns. None toward you. You attempt a cartwheel 'for fun' and lie adorably in the grass; the puppy rolls over and wins. Homework: photograph somebody else's good thing and post it without appearing in the frame.
DO
Pet the puppy briefly
Hold the poop bag gracefully
Post a photo minus you
DON'T
Attempt the cartwheel
Tell stories at stadium volume
Roll over for belly rubs
Session note. The solar system's biggest enabler, Jupiter, is sitting in your sign, enlarging everything it touches, including the old wound. This afternoon a friend shows up to the park with a nine-week-old golden retriever, and every head in the group turns. Something very young in you, about four years old and wearing a tiara, notices nobody is looking at it.

Watch the defense. You won't compete with the puppy directly; you have too much dignity, allegedly. Instead you'll tell your best story at stadium volume, attempt a cartwheel 'for fun,' and lie in the grass in a way you believe is adorable. The puppy rolls over. The group screams. You've been out-bellied by something that eats socks.

Tonight you'll scroll the friend's post and count: forty photos of the puppy, one of you, blurry, in the background, holding its poop bag. The mane takes this personally. Homework: take one photo of somebody else's good thing and post it without appearing in the frame. Not your elbow. Not your reflection in their sunglasses.
DO
Pet the puppy briefly
Hold the poop bag gracefully
Post a photo minus you
DON'T
Attempt the cartwheel
Tell stories at stadium volume
Roll over for belly rubs
You'll autograph a stranger's baseball.

A kid asks to borrow your pen, and you autograph his baseball and tell his dad 'you're welcome.'
Fame comes calling at the park this afternoon. A kid asks to borrow a pen, and you'll take the baseball out of his hand and sign it, little star after your name. His father asks what you've done to the ball. You'll say 'you're welcome.' Hand the kid the pen. Just the pen. Lucky number: 8x10.
DO
Hand over just the pen
Let your date finish
Face away from the spoons
DON'T
Add the little star
Repeat the jacket compliment
Offer his dad a selfie
Fame comes calling! Sort of. At the park this afternoon a kid asks to borrow a pen, and you'll take the baseball out of his hand and sign it, little star after your name. His father will ask what you've done to the ball. You'll say 'you're welcome.' Avoid signing contracts. Everything else, you'll sign.

Your hair is having a big day, and it knows. Every reflective surface within ten miles figures prominently: a stranger's sunglasses, a toaster, the back of a spoon at brunch, which is why you'll miss your food arriving. An unexpected windfall: a stranger compliments your jacket, and six people will hear about it before dinner.

Romance is in the air. Mostly it's your cologne. A date starts telling you about their week, and you'll listen bravely for almost a minute. Compatibility: high with mirrors, low with never-heard-of-you Aquarius. Hand the kid the pen. Just the pen. Lucky number: 8x10. Lucky color: whatever matches the headshot.
DO
Hand over just the pen
Let your date finish
Face away from the spoons
DON'T
Add the little star
Repeat the jacket compliment
Offer his dad a selfie
Virgo

Aug 23 – Sep 22 · Earth · ruled by Mercury
You'll visit Target three times.

Retrograde Mercury in your errands house reverses your perfect Sunday loop, and you'll hit Target three times for one battery.
With your ruler Mercury retrograde in your 3rd house of short trips, the most efficient Sunday errand loop ever routed folds back on itself, and you'll return to Target three times for the one thing on the list, a nine-volt battery. Mars and Jupiter in your 12th hide two label makers in the bag. Write 'nine-volt' on your hand and go once.
DO
Write 'nine-volt' on your hand
Go to Target once
Hit the battery aisle first
DON'T
Avoid every left turn
Correct the cashier's math
Buy a label maker's label maker
Your fastidious ruler Mercury is retrograde in Scorpio in your 3rd house of short trips today, and that is bad news for a person who routes errands to avoid left turns. Expect the optimized loop, hardware store, pharmacy, Target and a post office that is closed on Sundays, to send you back to Target three times for the one thing on the list: a nine-volt battery.

Sneaky Mars and bloated Jupiter are hiding in your 12th house of secrets, squared by Mercury, so be wary of what you're quietly buying on trips two and three. A label maker. A second label maker, for the first one's labels. Resist the urge to hide the receipt in the glove box; the glove box is already alphabetized and the receipt will be found.

Retrograde Venus in your 2nd house of money turns the evening into a returns line, and this is not the day to correct the cashier's math out loud, even though you'll be right. Write 'nine-volt' on your hand in ballpoint, go once, and come home without a single label maker.
DO
Write 'nine-volt' on your hand
Go to Target once
Hit the battery aisle first
DON'T
Avoid every left turn
Correct the cashier's math
Buy a label maker's label maker
You'll improve the neighbor's fern.

You water the neighbor's thriving plants, improve them with a laminated schedule, and by tonight her fern is drooping.
Retrograde Mercury hands you a watering can and a grudge: this morning you water the neighbor's plants and find them thriving under conditions you consider wrong. Her sticky note says 'a splash on Sundays.' You repot, mist and laminate a schedule, and by tonight her fern droops. Homework: water the next plant exactly as instructed, then leave without proofreading the instructions.
DO
Follow the sticky note
Splash, then leave
Let her plants thrive wrong
DON'T
Laminate a watering schedule
Repot plants you don't own
Proofread the sticky note
What we're working with today: your fussy, reversing ruler Mercury, parked in your neighborhood house and squaring Mars, which is astrology handing you a watering can and a grudge. This morning you let yourself into the neighbor's place to water her plants while she's away. They're thriving. Under conditions that are, by every standard you hold, wrong.

Her sticky note says 'a splash on Sundays.' What comes up for you is the old belief that if something thrives without your system, you might not be necessary. So you rotate the pots, mist the fern, repot the pothos in premium soil from your own closet, and laminate a schedule. You'll call it helping. It's a hostile takeover in gardening gloves.

Tonight her fern droops like it read the laminated schedule. Back home, your own spider plant, watered by syringe on a color-coded calendar, looks worse than every one of hers, and you'll spend an hour googling 'transplant shock' rather than notice. Homework: water the next plant exactly as instructed, then leave the room without proofreading the instructions.
DO
Follow the sticky note
Splash, then leave
Let her plants thrive wrong
DON'T
Laminate a watering schedule
Repot plants you don't own
Proofread the sticky note
You'll get hired while folding.

You refold one Old Navy sweater table, the manager schedules you Saturday, and you find two typos in it.
You'll stop into Old Navy for socks this afternoon, refold one sweater table because somebody had to, then the whole wall. By the time you look up, a manager has clipped a lanyard on you and put you on Saturday's schedule. You'll find two typos in it. Walk past the next sweater table. Lucky number: 0.5, the inch you'll fix on everything.
DO
Buy the socks and leave
Eat the pancakes as served
Use the coupon tomorrow
DON'T
Touch the sweater wall
Re-angle anyone's fork
Show up on Saturday
Career opportunities arise in an unexpected aisle. You'll stop into Old Navy for socks this afternoon, refold one sweater table because somebody had to, then the whole wall. By the time you look up, a manager has clipped a lanyard on you and put you on the schedule for Saturday. You'll find two typos in the schedule.

Romance is in the air, and you'll find a smudge on it. Someone sweet makes you Sunday pancakes, and you'll compliment them while quietly re-angling the fork. An unexpected windfall: the coupon expires tomorrow, not today, and you'll use it today anyway, on principle.

A friend asks you to hold her purse for one second and gets it back alphabetized. Avoid signing contracts you haven't footnoted. Compatibility: high with label makers, low with hangers-on-the-floor Sagittarius. Walk past the next sweater table. Do not touch it. Lucky number: 0.5, the inch you'll fix on everything. Lucky color: the beige on the label you'll reprint twice.
DO
Buy the socks and leave
Eat the pancakes as served
Use the coupon tomorrow
DON'T
Touch the sweater wall
Re-angle anyone's fork
Show up on Saturday
Libra

Sep 23 – Oct 22 · Air · ruled by Venus
Both jerseys will get booed.

The Full Moon opposes your ruler: you'll wear both teams' jerseys, and both halves of the room will boo.
With retrograde Venus in your 1st house of how you come across, expect to show up at somebody's Sunday football party in two jerseys, one over the other, so nobody feels left out. The Full Moon in your 7th house opposes your ruler and asks you to pick a side. You won't. By the fourth quarter both halves of the room will boo. Take one jersey off and keep it off.
DO
Take off one jersey
Pick a side by kickoff
Pay the eleven dollars
DON'T
Cheer for both touchdowns
Sit on the armrest between halves
Boo both teams equally
Rowdy Mars and beer-gutted Jupiter in your 11th house of friends set you up for somebody's Sunday football party, loud, crowded and split down the middle of the sectional. Your ruler Venus is retrograde in your 1st house of how you come across, so expect to arrive in two jerseys, one over the other, in the name of fairness.

The Full Moon lands in your 7th house of partners opposite your ruler, with retrograde Saturn alongside, which means somebody you're close to will finally ask you to pick a side. Be wary of cheering for both touchdowns. By the fourth quarter, both halves of the room will be booing your ass, and it will be the only thing they agree on all season.

Sticky-fingered Mercury, retrograde in your 2nd house of money, makes a friendly five-dollar bet a trap: expect to take both teams, win once, lose once, and somehow owe eleven dollars. This is not the day to ask how. Take off one jersey before kickoff, either one, and keep it off.
DO
Take off one jersey
Pick a side by kickoff
Pay the eleven dollars
DON'T
Cheer for both touchdowns
Sit on the armrest between halves
Boo both teams equally
Forty-three cents will bounce back.

You owe a friend forty-three cents, and by dinner it's crossed Venmo eleven times and the friendship has a ledger.
Retrograde Venus walks backward through your personality, and this afternoon you realize you shorted a friend forty-three cents on the Uber. You Venmo it with 'so sorry!!' She sends it back. You return it with a heart. By dinner the money has crossed the app eleven times and the friendship has a ledger. Homework: let someone cover something small and say only 'thanks.'
DO
Let her cover it
Say only 'thanks'
Close the Venmo app
DON'T
Correct the rounding
Add 'so sorry!!'
Gift-wrap a refund in hearts
The cosmos's most people-pleasing planet, Venus, is retrograde in your own sign and opposed by the Full Moon, walking backward through your personality while somebody holds a flashlight. This afternoon a friend covers the Uber, you Venmo her your third, and then you realize you rounded down. You owe forty-three cents. What comes up isn't math. It's the bone-deep terror of being, for one second, somebody who owes.

You send the forty-three cents with 'so sorry!!' She sends it back: 'stop lol.' You return it with a heart, because a heart makes it a gift, and gifts can't be refused. She refuses. By dinner the forty-three cents has crossed the app eleven times and the friendship has a ledger.

Tonight somebody close asks what's really bothering you, and you'll say 'nothing, I just like things even,' which is the most Libra sentence ever spoken and also bullshit. It was never about even. It's about nobody ever holding a single cent against you. Homework: let one person cover something under five dollars and say only 'thanks.' Then sit on your hands.
DO
Let her cover it
Say only 'thanks'
Close the Venmo app
DON'T
Correct the rounding
Add 'so sorry!!'
Gift-wrap a refund in hearts
Four-way stop will keep you.

You and three cars wave each other on at a four-way stop until a guy starts selling oranges there.
This morning you'll pull up to a four-way stop at the exact same moment as three other cars. You'll wave. They'll wave. You'll wave them on harder. By the time anyone moves, a mail truck has joined and a guy selling oranges is working the intersection. Go first at the next stop sign. Lucky number: 4, every direction at once.
DO
Go first at stop signs
Name one actual restaurant
Pick a side in the chat
DON'T
Wave back
Split dessert into thirds
Buy the intersection oranges
Traffic figures prominently! This morning you'll pull up to a four-way stop at the exact same moment as three other cars. You'll wave. They'll wave. You'll wave them on harder. By the time anyone moves, a mail truck has joined, it's somehow after lunch, and a guy selling oranges is working the damn intersection.

Romance is in the air, and it wants to know where you'd like to eat. You'll say 'anywhere.' It'll pick somewhere. You'll make a face. A take-charge Taurus figures prominently by ordering for you, and you'll be grateful and furious in perfectly equal amounts. Compatibility: high with whoever's driving.

Two friends fight in the group chat, and you'll heart both messages. An unexpected windfall: a free dessert, which you'll split into thirds for two people. Avoid signing contracts. Avoid choosing the pen to sign them with. Go first at the next stop sign. Lucky number: 4, every direction at once. Lucky color: both.
DO
Go first at stop signs
Name one actual restaurant
Pick a side in the chat
DON'T
Wave back
Split dessert into thirds
Buy the intersection oranges
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON

Oct 23 – Nov 21 · Water · ruled by Pluto
Your mother will out-spy you.

The Sun squares Pluto in your family house, and your mother casually reveals three secrets you never told her.
With the Sun squaring your ruler Pluto in your 4th house of family, expect the most dangerous investigator in your life to be your mother. On the Sunday phone call she'll casually mention the second Instagram and the tattoo under your watchband, and she will not reveal her sources. This is not the day to open a file on her. Say 'love you,' hang up, change your passwords.
DO
Say 'love you' and hang up
Change every password
Check under the watchband
DON'T
Ask how she knows
Open a file on her
Try to out-spy her book club
With the Sun in Scorpio squaring your demoted, grudge-holding ruler Pluto in your 4th house of family, expect the most dangerous investigator in your life today to be your mother. On the Sunday phone call, be wary of how casually she mentions things you never told her: the second Instagram, the tattoo under your watchband, the real reason you left Thanksgiving early.

Retrograde Mercury in your 1st house sends your own secrets back around the block, so resist the urge to ask how she knows. She will not reveal her sources. You've built an entire personality on knowing things first, and a woman who still forwards chain emails just beat you to all of it.

Ambitious Mars and grandstanding Jupiter in your 10th house of career turn the humiliation into a project, so expect a strong urge to spend the evening building a file on her: her book club, her group chats, the neighbor she talks to over the fence. This is not the day to start a surveillance war you will lose. Say 'love you,' hang up, and change every password you own.
DO
Say 'love you' and hang up
Change every password
Check under the watchband
DON'T
Ask how she knows
Open a file on her
Try to out-spy her book club
Nobody will pass your test.

A friend asks if anything's coming up, you hide your birthday, and she fails a test she never saw.
The Sun squares Pluto, and the secret test you've run all month is ready for grading. This afternoon a friend asks, 'Anything fun coming up?' Your birthday is close enough to smell. You say 'Nope,' and a file opens. Later a family call misses your hint and joins the file. Homework: tell one person the date tonight, plainly, with no riddle and no surveillance.
DO
Say the date out loud
Admit you want cake
Close the file
DON'T
Answer 'nope' while smiling
Hint within one sentence
Add tabs to the file
The clinical picture today: the Sun in your sign is squaring your ruler, the underworld's landlord Pluto, which means the test you've been secretly administering all month is ready for grading. This afternoon a friend asks, 'Anything fun coming up?' Your birthday is close enough to smell. You say 'Nope,' smiling. A file opens.

Notice the pattern: you hide the date, then grade people for not finding it. Later, when somebody in the family calls, you'll steer the conversation within one sentence of the topic and stop, like a hunter who wants credit for not shooting. If they miss the hint, they go in the file too. It's a thick file. It has tabs.

What you're avoiding, of course, is the humiliating possibility that you'd like a cake. With candles. And people singing badly, at you, on purpose. Wanting something out loud feels like handing somebody the knife and the map. Homework: tell one person the date tonight, plainly, in one sentence, with no riddle, no test and no follow-up surveillance.
DO
Say the date out loud
Admit you want cake
Close the file
DON'T
Answer 'nope' while smiling
Hint within one sentence
Add tabs to the file
Restaurant will frame your review.

Brunch gets your eggs wrong, and you write a one-star review so cruel the owner frames it by the register.
A brunch place gets your eggs wrong this morning, and by afternoon you'll post a one-star review so dark and beautifully cruel that the owner frames it by the register. 'The hollandaise knew what it did' goes on the specials board. Eat the eggs. Tip like nothing happened. Lucky number: 1, as in stars.
DO
Tip like nothing happened
Open packages bare-handed
Answer the date's question
DON'T
Memorize license plates
Order the sandwich named after you
Sign the framed review
It's your season, and somebody will pay. A brunch place gets your eggs wrong this morning, and by afternoon you'll post a one-star review so dark, so personal, so beautifully cruel that the owner prints it, frames it and hangs it by the register. 'The hollandaise knew what it did' goes on the specials board.

Romance is in the air, and you'll trust none of it. A date asks a harmless question about your weekend, and you'll answer with a question about theirs that is not harmless. A stranger smiles at you in the parking lot. You'll memorize his plate.

An unexpected package arrives. You'll open it with oven mitts. Compatibility: high with loose-lipped Gemini, which is how you'll get everyone's secrets, and low with the brunch place, which has now named a sandwich after you. Eat the eggs. Tip like nothing happened. Let it go. Lucky number: 1, as in stars. Lucky color: black, but louder.
DO
Tip like nothing happened
Open packages bare-handed
Answer the date's question
DON'T
Memorize license plates
Order the sandwich named after you
Sign the framed review
Sagittarius

Nov 22 – Dec 21 · Fire · ruled by Jupiter
Silent retreat will refund you.

Jupiter in your 9th sends you to a silent retreat, and by lunch they'll refund you to leave.
Your ruler Jupiter in your 9th house of big beliefs finds a lotus flyer, and you'll sign up for a day-long silent retreat in a converted barn. Retrograde Mercury in your 12th house of seclusion squares it, so the silence won't hold past the second bell. By lunch, expect the barn to offer a full refund if you'll just go. Take it. Don't phone anyone to describe the silence.
DO
Take the refund
Drive home with the radio off
Leave the cushion folded
DON'T
Whisper about the ceiling beams
Tell the houseboat story
Call anyone to describe the silence
Your sprawling, overpromising ruler Jupiter sits in Leo in your 9th house of big beliefs alongside Mars, and the Moon trines it from your 5th, so expect a sudden spiritual awakening at a juice bar bulletin board. Be wary of any flyer with a lotus on it. You'll sign up for a day-long silent retreat in a converted barn an hour north, because enlightenment sounds like a road trip.

Retrograde, loose-lipped Mercury in your 12th house of seclusion squares that Jupiter, which is the sky's way of saying the silence will not hold. Expect to last until roughly the second bell. Resist the urge to whisper a thought about the ceiling beams to the woman on the next cushion. You'll whisper it, and then the whole houseboat story.

Retrograde Venus in your 11th house of friends means the people who know you best have already started a pool on how long you'll last. By lunch, expect the barn to offer a full refund if you'll just go. Take the refund, drive home with the radio off, and do not call anybody to describe the silence.
DO
Take the refund
Drive home with the radio off
Leave the cushion folded
DON'T
Whisper about the ceiling beams
Tell the houseboat story
Call anyone to describe the silence
You'll review a friend's newborn.

A friend texts newborn photos, you reply that he looks like Mitch McConnell, and the group chat goes silent.
Jupiter convinces you bluntness is a spiritual practice, and this morning a friend texts newborn photos. You study them carefully, then reply that he looks exactly like Mitch McConnell. You call it 'just being real.' By evening the group chat goes quiet in that specific way. Homework: send one word, 'congratulations,' and delete the second sentence before your thumb finishes it.
DO
Type 'congratulations' and stop
Delete the second sentence
Let the baby be cute
DON'T
Review a date's apartment
Call it 'just being real'
Compare infants to Senate Republicans
Loud-uncle Jupiter, your ruler, is holding court in your house of big beliefs, and today it convinces you bluntness is a spiritual practice. This morning a friend texts photos of her newborn. You study them with real care. Then you reply that he looks exactly like Mitch McConnell, and you'll defend it all day as 'just being real.'

What comes up is the old pattern: say the unsayable thing and nobody gets close enough to land a punch. It shows up again tonight, Moon in your romance house, when a date says they'd like to see you again and you answer with a frank review of their apartment and three countries you might move to.

By evening the group chat goes quiet in that very specific way, and you'll tell yourself people just can't handle the truth, archer. They can handle the truth. They can't handle a retiring senator in a bassinet. Homework: send the new mother one word, 'congratulations,' and delete the second sentence before your thumb finishes it.
DO
Type 'congratulations' and stop
Delete the second sentence
Let the baby be cute
DON'T
Review a date's apartment
Call it 'just being real'
Compare infants to Senate Republicans
Seminar crowd will follow you.

You ask one rude question at a free abundance seminar, forty people follow you out, and you've already left.
A stranger hands you a flyer for a free seminar called 'Unlock Your Abundance.' You'll go for the cookies, raise your hand, and ask the man in the headset why abundance is renting a Marriott ballroom. By the parking lot, forty people are following you and asking what's next. You'll have already left. Lose the followers by dinner. Lucky color: exit-sign red.
DO
Take the cookies
Lose the followers by dinner
Return the mystery hoodie
DON'T
Raise your hand again
Bring a map on dates
Collect dues from the followers
A stranger hands you a flyer outside a Panera: free seminar, free cookies, 'Unlock Your Abundance.' You'll go for the cookies, raise your hand twenty minutes in, and ask the man in the headset why abundance is renting a Marriott ballroom. The room turns. By the parking lot, forty people are following you and asking what's next. You'll have already left.

Romance is in the air, and you're halfway out the door with it. A date says 'let's see where this goes,' and you'll produce a map. An unexpected windfall: someone returns a hoodie you lent them in 2019, and you don't remember owning it.

A coworker asks what you really think of her slideshow and gets the answer, in full, with a diagram. Somebody will ask you to commit to Thanksgiving, and you'll answer from the highway. Avoid signing contracts. Avoid signing the clipboard. Compatibility: high with already-in-the-car Aries. Lose the followers by dinner. Lucky number: 40, all of them looking at you. Lucky color: exit-sign red.
DO
Take the cookies
Lose the followers by dinner
Return the mystery hoodie
DON'T
Raise your hand again
Bring a map on dates
Collect dues from the followers
Capricorn

Dec 22 – Jan 19 · Earth · ruled by Saturn
You'll find zero hobbies today.

Saturn retrograde in your home house kills the Wi-Fi, and you'll search four rooms for a hobby and find none.
With your ruler Saturn retrograde in your 4th house of home beside the Full Moon, expect the Wi-Fi to die this afternoon and leave you face to face with your hobbies. You'll search four rooms and a closet and find none. Mars trines Saturn, so you'll try working off the phone's hotspot anyway. Sit on the couch for one hour doing nothing, and do not log it.
DO
Sit on the couch for an hour
Leave the router alone
Let the hour go unbilled
DON'T
Run work off the hotspot
Call alphabetizing a hobby
Invoice yourself for the hour
Your joyless, clipboard-carrying ruler Saturn is retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home, sharing it with today's Full Moon, so the house itself will push back on your Sunday. Expect the Wi-Fi to die sometime this afternoon, and be warned: with the laptop dark, you'll be forced to locate a hobby. You will not find one. The search will take four rooms and a closet.

Retrograde Venus in your 10th house of career means the thing you love most is closed on Sundays. Resist the urge to run the laptop off your phone's hotspot just to stay on top of things. Mars trines Saturn today, so you'll try anyway, and with Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of shared money, you'll burn through the whole shared data plan by dusk.

With the Full Moon lighting up your 4th house, the question will follow you to bed: what do you do for fun? Be wary of answering 'quarterly planning,' even to yourself. This is not the day to alphabetize the spice rack and call it woodworking. Sit on the couch for one full hour doing nothing, and do not log it.
DO
Sit on the couch for an hour
Leave the router alone
Let the hour go unbilled
DON'T
Run work off the hotspot
Call alphabetizing a hobby
Invoice yourself for the hour
You'll write up your nap.

A twenty-minute nap ambushes you on the couch this afternoon, and you email yourself a written warning about it.
Saturn retrogrades through your house of home and the couch has you surrounded: this afternoon a twenty-minute nap ambushes you mid-episode, and you wake with the dread of somebody who committed wire fraud. Within four minutes you email yourself a written warning. Homework: lie on the couch for ten minutes tonight, on purpose, and do not log it.
DO
Lie down on purpose
Let the drool dry
Close the laptop
DON'T
Log the nap
Cc your personal account
Lay out clothes like a getaway driver
Stern, rewinding Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of home, with the Moon parked in the same room, which means the couch has you surrounded and it's armed. This afternoon a nap ambushes you mid-episode: twenty minutes, no warning, drool involved. You wake with the dread of somebody who just committed wire fraud.

Watch the defense go up. Within four minutes you'll open the laptop and email yourself a written warning, cc'ing your personal account for the record. Your jaw closes back up like a garage door. Somebody in your family system once praised you for being 'no trouble,' and you've been billing hours against that compliment ever since.

Tonight the Sunday dread everybody else complains about arrives, and in you it registers as relief. Monday is coming. Monday has rules. You'll lay out tomorrow's clothes like a getaway driver checking the car. Homework: lie on the couch for ten minutes tonight, on purpose, and do not log it, bill it or call it 'recovery.'
DO
Lie down on purpose
Let the drool dry
Close the laptop
DON'T
Log the nap
Cc your personal account
Lay out clothes like a getaway driver
Office lights will forget you.

You work so still at the empty Sunday office that the lights shut off, and the cleaning crew screams.
It's Sunday, so you'll go to the office. You'll work so still for so long that the motion-sensor lights decide nobody's there and shut off. You'll keep typing in the dark until the cleaning crew finds you by the glow of a pivot table and screams. Wave at the ceiling now and then. Lucky color: fluorescent, when it's on.
DO
Wave at the ceiling
Mention the toast once
Cash the four-dollar rebate
DON'T
Request spontaneity in writing
Pitch the rebate at dinner
Ask the cleaning crew for updates
It's Sunday, so naturally you'll go to the office. Where the hell else? The building is empty, the parking lot is yours, and you'll work so still for so long that the motion-sensor lights decide nobody's there and shut off. You'll keep typing in the dark. The cleaning crew will find you by the glow of a pivot table and scream.

Money matters come to a head when a friend splits brunch evenly and you'll mention, twice, that you had toast. An unexpected windfall: a four-dollar rebate from 2023 finally arrives, and you'll bring it up at dinner like a stock tip. Avoid signing contracts. You'll negotiate the pen.

Romance is in the air, but it isn't on the calendar. A date suggests being spontaneous, and you'll ask for that in writing. Compatibility: high with the Sunday-shift security guard, the only other person here. Wave at the ceiling now and then. Prove you're alive. Lucky number: 7, the days a week you come in. Lucky color: fluorescent, when it's on.
DO
Wave at the ceiling
Mention the toast once
Cash the four-dollar rebate
DON'T
Request spontaneity in writing
Pitch the rebate at dinner
Ask the cleaning crew for updates
Aquarius

Jan 20 – Feb 18 · Air · ruled by Uranus
You'll enjoy something popular, unironically.

Retrograde Uranus flips your taste, and a Taylor Swift song in a CVS will genuinely move you.
With your ruler Uranus retrograde in your 5th house of fun, your taste spins around like a weathervane. Expect a Taylor Swift song over the ceiling speakers at a CVS this afternoon, and expect to like it, not ironically, standing in the shampoo aisle until the bridge ends. Jupiter in your 7th puts a witness beside you. Don't deny it. Tell no one you know the second verse.
DO
Let the bridge finish
Buy the shampoo
Finish the song in the parking lot
DON'T
Claim you liked her first
Call it a sociological study
Explain her to the cashier
Your sideways-tipped, contrarian ruler Uranus is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of fun, which spins your taste around like a weathervane. Expect to be in a CVS this afternoon when a Taylor Swift song comes over the ceiling speakers, and expect to like it. Not ironically. Not as a sociological study. You'll stand in the shampoo aisle until the bridge ends.

With unblinking Pluto and the North Node both in Aquarius in your 1st house, and the Sun in your 10th squaring Pluto, your reputation as the last person to like anything popular is under serious pressure. Be wary of humming. Resist the urge to claim you liked her early, back when she was 'more country.' Nobody will believe it, and worse, you'll know.

Loud Mars and bigmouthed Jupiter in your 7th house of partners put a witness next to you, so expect somebody close to catch you mouthing the words by the register. This is not the day to deny it. Buy the shampoo, finish the song in the parking lot, and tell no one you know the second verse.
DO
Let the bridge finish
Buy the shampoo
Finish the song in the parking lot
DON'T
Claim you liked her first
Call it a sociological study
Explain her to the cashier
You'll renounce chairs this afternoon.

A man who lives in an ambulance calls you mainstream, so you renounce chairs and stand all afternoon.
Pluto, the original contrarian, sits in your sign, and at a backyard thing this afternoon you meet a man who lives in an ambulance and refuses to own a fork. He calls your taste 'kind of mainstream.' The floor drops. Within ten minutes you announce you don't believe in chairs and stand beside several. Homework: sit in one ordinary chair tomorrow and say nothing.
DO
Sit in the chair
Let him be weirder
Answer the sibling briefly
DON'T
Renounce furniture publicly
Write nine hundred words on chairs
Stand like an opinionated coat rack
The solar system's original contrarian, demoted Pluto, is sitting in your sign, trining your backpedaling ruler Uranus. That's the material. At a backyard thing this afternoon you meet a man who lives in a converted ambulance, refuses to own a fork and listens only to Estonian field recordings on reel-to-reel. He calls your taste, gently, 'kind of mainstream.'

Watch what comes up: the floor drops. If you're not the strangest motherfucker in the yard, who are you? So you escalate. Within ten minutes you've announced that you don't believe in chairs, and you spend the rest of the afternoon standing, pointedly, like a coat rack with opinions, beside several empty chairs.

Tonight you finally sit on your own couch and feel like a defector. A sibling texts to ask how the party was, and you reply with nine hundred words on furniture as social control. Homework: sit in one ordinary chair in public tomorrow and say nothing about it. Nobody will notice. That's the treatment.
DO
Sit in the chair
Let him be weirder
Answer the sibling briefly
DON'T
Renounce furniture publicly
Write nine hundred words on chairs
Stand like an opinionated coat rack
You'll gift a symbolic goat.

Your friend asks for a birthday candle, and you donate a goat in her name; it emails her monthly.
A friend asked for a candle for her birthday. Any candle. You'll donate a goat to a village in her name, print the certificate at FedEx, and explain livestock economics while she unwraps it. She smiles the smile of a woman who wanted a candle. The goat now emails her monthly. Buy the woman a candle. Lucky number: 1, the goat.
DO
Buy the woman a candle
Name a movie that exists
Sign the stop-sign petition
DON'T
Explain livestock economics
Pitch the solar roundabout
Reply to the goat's emails
A birthday figures prominently. A friend asked for a candle. Any candle. You'll instead donate a goat to a village in her name, print the certificate at a FedEx, and explain livestock economics while she unwraps it. She'll smile the smile of a woman who wanted a candle. The goat will now email her monthly.

Romance is in the air, and you'll describe it as 'a construct.' A date asks your favorite movie, and you'll name a 1974 Czech documentary nobody has seen, including you. An unexpected windfall: someone finally agrees with you, which ruins it.

A stranger at Trader Joe's will recognize your username. That's on you. The neighbor wants a signature on a petition for a stop sign, and you'll counter-propose a roundabout made of solar panels. Compatibility: low with whoever's hosting. Buy the woman a candle. Lucky number: 1, the goat. Lucky color: one nobody's heard of yet.
DO
Buy the woman a candle
Name a movie that exists
Sign the stop-sign petition
DON'T
Explain livestock economics
Pitch the solar roundabout
Reply to the goat's emails
Pisces

Feb 19 – Mar 20 · Water · ruled by Neptune
The tip screen will win.

Neptune fogs your money house, and a swiveling bakery iPad talks you into a nine-dollar tip on one croissant.
With your ruler Neptune retrograde in your 2nd house of money beside the Full Moon, your sense of what anything costs is mist. Expect a bakery iPad to swivel toward you this morning; you'll tip nine dollars on one croissant. Jupiter in your 6th makes it a habit: frozen yogurt you served yourself, a parking app. Read the number out loud before you press anything.
DO
Read the number out loud
Look at the croissant, not the screen
Pay in exact change
DON'T
Make eye contact with the iPad
Tap 'custom'
Apologize to the parking kiosk
Your foggy, slippery ruler Neptune is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money, alongside the Full Moon and retrograde Saturn, so your sense of what anything costs is mist today. Expect an iPad to swivel toward you at a bakery counter this morning, and be wary of eye contact. You'll tap 'custom' and tip nine dollars on one croissant because the kid said 'no pressure.'

Bossy Mars and puffed-up Jupiter in your 6th house of daily routine turn one bad tip into a habit by afternoon. Expect to tip at a self-serve frozen yogurt place where you did the serving, a parking app, and a kiosk that has never once thanked anyone. Resist the urge to apologize to the kiosk.

Neptune sextiles Pluto in your 12th house of secrets, so the total stays hidden until late tonight, when your banking app reveals it all at once, gently, like a dream about a bill. This is not the day to round up for anything. When the next screen swivels, read the number out loud before you press anything.
DO
Read the number out loud
Look at the croissant, not the screen
Pay in exact change
DON'T
Make eye contact with the iPad
Tap 'custom'
Apologize to the parking kiosk
You'll console the solar salesman.

A solar-panel salesman knocks this afternoon, and forty minutes later you're consoling him and pricing a roof you don't own.
Retrograde Neptune fogs your sense of worth, and this afternoon a solar-panel salesman knocks, two sales short of quota. You feel his entire childhood before his opener. Forty minutes later he's drinking your good seltzer and you've booked a free roof consultation for a building you don't own. Homework: say 'no' to one person before bed; rehearse on the smart speaker.
DO
Say no once
Rehearse on the smart speaker
Keep the good seltzer
DON'T
Open the door
Ask about his quota
Book roofs you don't own
We're working with your foggy, moonwalking ruler Neptune today, retrograde in your house of money and self-worth. This afternoon a solar-panel salesman knocks, sweating through a polo, and mentions he's two sales short of quota. What comes up for you is his entire childhood, which you feel in your own chest before he finishes his opener.

Here's the pattern, little fish: you don't have boundaries, you have a porch. Forty minutes later you're consoling him, he's drinking your good seltzer and tearing up about his bonus structure, and you've booked a free roof consultation for a building you don't own. You'll call it kindness. The building's actual owner will call it something else.

Around dinner he texts 'you're a real one,' and you'll feel chosen. Later, alone, you'll feel drained and vaguely robbed without knowing why, because the feeling you absorbed was his and the one you're avoiding is yours. Homework: say the word 'no' to one person before bed. Rehearse on the smart speaker first; it won't take it personally, and for once, neither should you.
DO
Say no once
Rehearse on the smart speaker
Keep the good seltzer
DON'T
Open the door
Ask about his quota
Book roofs you don't own
A grouper will leave you.

You bond with an aquarium grouper for an hour, and it dumps you for a kid's Capri Sun.
At the aquarium this afternoon, you'll lock eyes with a grouper through the glass and feel seen for the first time since spring. You'll stay an hour and tell it about your week. Then a kid with a Capri Sun walks up, and the grouper leaves you for him without a backward glance. Let the grouper go. Lucky number: 3.
DO
Keep the twenty
Take the short way home
Visit the jellyfish instead
DON'T
Tell the fish your week
Adopt a rival fish
Write the grouper a letter
Romance is in the water. At the aquarium this afternoon, you'll lock eyes with a grouper through the glass and feel seen for the first time since spring. You'll stay an hour. You'll tell it about your week. Then a kid with a Capri Sun walks up, and the grouper leaves you for him without a backward glance.

An unexpected windfall: a twenty in a coat pocket. You'll give it to the first person who sighs near you. Avoid signing contracts; you'll sign the aquarium's adopt-a-fish form for a fish that is not the grouper, just to make it jealous.

A song comes on in the car on the way home, and you'll take the long way, then the longer way, then a ferry. Compatibility: high with soggy-eyed Cancer, who will cry with you in an entirely different key. Let the grouper go. Lucky number: 3, the seconds he looked at you. Lucky color: the blue behind the glass.
DO
Keep the twenty
Take the short way home
Visit the jellyfish instead
DON'T
Tell the fish your week
Adopt a rival fish
Write the grouper a letter

YA ROASTED!

WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-25 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris

Planet positions
Sun	2.3° Scorpio
Moon	26.1° Aries
Mercury	20.8° Scorpio ℞
Venus	29.8° Libra ℞
Mars	15.4° Leo
Jupiter	23.5° Leo
Saturn	9.7° Aries ℞
Uranus	4.9° Gemini ℞
Neptune	2.2° Aries ℞
Pluto	3.1° Aquarius
North Node	26.4° Aquarius

TODAY'S ASPECTS

Sun square Pluto (0.8°, tense)
Neptune sextile Pluto (0.9°, easy)
Uranus trine Pluto (1.8°, flowing)
Sun conjunct Venus (2.5°, fused)
Mercury square Jupiter (2.7°, tense)
Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
Moon trine Jupiter (2.6°, flowing)
Venus square Pluto (3.3°, tense)
Moon opposite Venus (3.7°, at odds)
Mercury square Mars (5.5°, tense)

HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE The astrology is real. The astrologer is a bean.

THE SKY IS COMPUTED, NOT VIBED. Every morning, before you are conscious, a machine runs the Swiss Ephemeris. That is the planetary engine behind most serious astrology software, built on the same orbital math astronomers use, which the astronomers would like you to stop bringing up. It fixes the Sun, the Moon, Mercury through Pluto and the Moon's North Node at 17:00 UTC, lunchtime on the East Coast, in the tropical zodiac, as seen from Earth. The positions are good to about an arcsecond. A horoscope needs about a degree. We brought a surgical laser to a pie fight.

RETROGRADES ARE MEASURED. A planet is retrograde here because its computed speed is negative today, not because someone on your feed said Mercury was "doing something." When the chips at the top say nothing is retrograde, nothing is. Astrologers find that suspicious. So do we.

THE MOON GETS THE FULL TREATMENT. Phase and percent lit, from the real angle between the Sun and the Moon. Which sign she is in, and if she changes sign today, the minute she does it. This is more attention than the Moon has ever gotten from you.

THE ASPECTS ARE THE CLASSICAL FIVE. Conjunction, sextile, square, trine, opposition: Ptolemy's set, the one every astrologer has used since the second century. We allow six degrees of orb, four for the sextile, which is a weak aspect and knows it. That is tighter than a birth chart, because a daily column only cares what is happening today. They are listed tightest first in the panel above, so you can check the work. You won't.

THE HOUSES ARE WHOLE-SIGN, COUNTED FROM YOUR SUN SIGN. This is the solar-chart trick, and it is how every newspaper horoscope since the 1930s has faked a birth chart for a million strangers at once. Your sign is the first house, the next sign is the second, and so on around the wheel. So when the Classical says Venus is retrograde in your seventh house, that is arithmetic: Venus is in that sign, that sign is seven signs from yours, and the seventh house is partners and enemies, a distinction your sign has never managed. Each sign also carries its element, its modality and its ruling planet, the furniture the genre has used for two thousand years, with the modern rulers. Pluto rules Scorpio. Scorpio chose that itself.

THEN THE BEAN READS IT. The sky goes to Roastie as a written report and he works from it, under the one rule a real columnist is supposed to follow and rarely does: use the sky that is there. Never invent a planet, a transit or a retrograde that isn't. He may leave things out. He may not make things up. The Classical has to be correct to the report, naming the planets, houses and aspects in play for your sign that day. The Psychological takes one planet or the Moon as the material we're working with. The Tabloid barely looks up, which is the point: it is a parody of the checkout-aisle column, and the checkout-aisle column never looked up either.

ONE FATE, FOUR SIZES. He writes the Full Beating for each sign first, then cuts the Jab, the One-Liner, Five Words and the Do / Don't from it. Switching the dose opens the same prophecy up or down. It never changes what happens to you. Nothing changes what happens to you.

WHAT IT ISN'T. A birth chart. This is a sun-sign column, same as the one in the paper: no birth time, no rising sign, no natal anything. It knows your sign and the sky and nothing else, which is still more than your family knows. Whether any of it means anything is a separate question, and the same one you should have been asking your regular horoscope. The difference is that here the math is in the open. Check it against any ephemeris you like. The positions will match. The interpretation is where we part ways with the universe.

Not advice. Not anything you can sue over. The planets are real (Swiss Ephemeris); the interpretation is a bean with a grudge. How it's built. The Classical · The Psychological · The Tabloid written Sunday, October 25, 2026.