FILED MONDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2026

ROAST-O-SCOPE

Scorpio season
Full Moon in Taurus
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
Teenage referee benches you tonight.

After work you'll throw dodgeballs at sixth-graders like it's a blood feud, and a teenage referee will bench you.
Mars, your ruler, is swollen with Jupiter in your 5th house of fun, and Mercury retrograde squares it, which is how an adult ends up on a trampoline park's dodgeball court after work, throwing at sixth-graders like it's a blood feud. Expect a teenage referee in a striped shirt to bench you. Saturn retrograde in your 1st says sit there. Stay until a parent picks you up.
DO
Sign the trampoline waiver
Take the kids' bench
Let a sixth-grader win
DON'T
Answer your partner at full volume
Argue the call with a teenager
Ask the referee for his manager
With retrograde Venus backing through Libra in your 7th house, expect a partner to bring up something you said in August, word for word. Be wary of answering at your usual volume. Venus moving backward asks your relationships for a review, and you have never reviewed a goddamn thing in your life. You read the first line and charge. Resist the urge to win. You won't resist it, but the urge has been noted.

Mars, your ruler, is in Leo in your 5th house of fun with Jupiter beside it, inflating everything, while Mercury retrograde squares it from your 8th. That is the signature of a grown adult walking onto a trampoline park's dodgeball court after work and throwing at sixth-graders like it's a blood feud. Expect a teenage referee in a striped shirt to bench you, and expect it to be the kids' bench.

Sour hall monitor Saturn is retrograde in your 1st house, sharing it with fog-machine Neptune, so this is not the day to believe your knees are nineteen. Saturn restricts you and Neptune lies to you about it. Your instruction: sit on that bench and stay on it until a parent picks you up.
DO
Sign the trampoline waiver
Take the kids' bench
Let a sixth-grader win
DON'T
Answer your partner at full volume
Argue the call with a teenager
Ask the referee for his manager
Seven-year-old will let you win.

You lose seven straight Uno games to a seven-year-old after work, and on the eighth he lets you win.
Mars, your ruler, is loose in your house of play, and the material surfaces after work at a kitchen table: you lose seven straight games of Uno to a seven-year-old, and on the eighth he quietly holds his Draw Four and lets you win. The inner child feels it. Tonight you'll study Uno strategy videos in bed instead. Homework: lose something on purpose tomorrow and say 'good game' without 'technically.'
DO
Lose one game on purpose
Say 'good game' and stop
Let the kid shuffle
DON'T
Demand a best-of-nine
Watch Uno tutorials in bed
File an appeal with Mattel
This morning's material is Mars, your ruler, parked in your house of play, which in session terms means your competitive drive has wandered somewhere it isn't welcome: a children's game. It warms up early. Somebody from work solves the Monday puzzle in the group chat before you've opened it, and you notice your jaw doing something we've discussed.

The presenting event comes after work, at a relative's kitchen table, against a seven-year-old with a fistful of Uno cards. You lose. You lose again. By the seventh loss you're slapping down Draw Fours like you're settling a land dispute, and then it happens: he looks at you with enormous patience, quietly holds his last Draw Four, and plays a harmless blue five. He's letting you win. You'll feel it where the inner child lives, because the outer child just out-parented you.

What you'll do instead of sitting with that is watch Uno strategy videos in bed until the screen dims, learn that a Draw Four can be challenged, and text the family chat a ruling. Homework: lose one game of anything tomorrow on purpose and say 'good game' to the winner without adding 'technically.'
DO
Lose one game on purpose
Say 'good game' and stop
Let the kid shuffle
DON'T
Demand a best-of-nine
Watch Uno tutorials in bed
File an appeal with Mattel
You'll outrun the garbage truck.

You'll sprint your trash bin down the block in a bathrobe, beat the garbage truck, and get offered a job.
Early this morning you'll hear the garbage truck two streets over and drag your bin down the block in a bathrobe and one slipper. You beat the truck to the corner. The crew applauds. The driver offers you a job with dental. By afternoon the neighbors are taking bets on next Monday. So next week, stop at the corner and let the truck win one.
DO
Find the other slipper
Stretch before trash day
Let the truck win one
DON'T
Sign anything today
Turn the CVS line competitive
Take the job with dental
Trash day is a blood sport, and you're undefeated. Early this morning you'll hear the garbage truck two streets over and drag your bin down the block in a bathrobe and one slipper. You'll beat the truck to the corner by a full house. The crew will applaud. The driver will offer you a job with dental. By afternoon the neighbors are taking bets on next Monday.

An unexpected windfall arrives: four dollars in last winter's coat, spent before you finish zipping it. Avoid signing contracts. Avoid reading them, which was never on the table. A sweaty, protein-shake-rattling Leo figures prominently and will not shut the hell up about leg day.

Romance is in the air, and you'll sprint straight through it. A stranger smiles at you in the CVS line; you'll treat it as a challenge, and win. Compatibility: high with Sagittarius, who has also already left. Next Monday, stop at the corner and let the truck win one. Lucky number: 911. Lucky color: road-rash pink.
DO
Find the other slipper
Stretch before trash day
Let the truck win one
DON'T
Sign anything today
Turn the CVS line competitive
Take the job with dental
Taurus

Apr 20 – May 20 · Earth · ruled by Venus
Facilities will move around you.

Facilities redraws the seating chart this morning, and by afternoon they've moved the walls, plant and printer around your chair.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind and squaring Pluto, so expect a Monday email from Facilities about 'flexible seating.' The Full Moon in your own sign says you're not flexible and you're not seated anywhere but there. By afternoon, workers in lanyards will move the walls, the plant and the printer around your chair. Do not stand up. Not even for lunch.
DO
Keep one hand on the armrest
Pack a lunch you can eat sitting
Let them move the printer
DON'T
Open the Facilities email
Try the other side of the bed
Stand up for a raise
With the Full Moon in Taurus lighting up your 1st house, you are the most visible object in the sky today, and you intend to stay exactly where you are. A Full Moon in your own sign brings things to a head. Yours is resting on your desk chair's lumbar pillow, and it isn't moving for anybody's bullshit.

Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind and squaring Pluto, the planet of forced change, with the Sun parked right on top of her. Be wary of any Monday email from Facilities with the phrase 'flexible seating' in it. The seating chart gets redrawn this morning. Expect workers in lanyards to move the cubicle walls, the plant and the printer around you instead of asking you to stand, because by afternoon they've done the math.

The Moon squares Mars in your 4th house of home, where Jupiter is also camped, so this is not the day for anyone at home to bring up a new couch, a new layout, or trying the other side of the bed. Resist the urge to announce a furniture policy. Your instruction: do not stand up. Not for lunch, not for the vending machine, not for a raise.
DO
Keep one hand on the armrest
Pack a lunch you can eat sitting
Let them move the printer
DON'T
Open the Facilities email
Try the other side of the bed
Stand up for a raise
Your sandwich will be discontinued.

The sub shop drops your sandwich from its menu at lunch, and by afternoon you've written corporate a eulogy.
The Full Moon sits in your sign at full volume, and at lunch it finds the soft spot: the sub shop's new menu board has dropped the sandwich you've ordered every Monday for a decade. You won't grieve. You'll draft a letter to corporate calling it 'a pillar of the community.' Homework: order the replacement tomorrow and compliment it to the guy behind the counter, out loud.
DO
Order the replacement sandwich
Compliment it to the counter guy
Throw out the wrong pickles
DON'T
Email the franchise owner
Reread the menu board
Hold a candlelight vigil for turkey
Today's material is the Full Moon, sitting in your own sign at full volume, which means whatever you usually feel slowly, you'll feel all at once and in public. The trigger is small and laminated. At lunch, the sub shop you've ordered from every Monday since the first Obama term has a new menu board, and your sandwich isn't on it. Not renamed. Gone. You'll stand at the counter reading the board top to bottom four times, the way people reread a breakup text.

Note what the defense looks like, because it won't look like grief. It'll look like policy. Back at your desk you'll draft a polite, devastating email to the chain's corporate office, then a second one to the franchise owner, describing the sandwich as 'a pillar of the community.' A coworker asks if you're okay, and you say 'it's just a sandwich' in the voice of someone who doesn't believe it.

Tonight you'll attempt a reconstruction from memory with deli turkey and the wrong pickles, eat it standing at the counter, and call it close. It is not close. Homework: go back tomorrow, order the replacement, and say one kind thing about it to the guy behind the counter, out loud, with your face.
DO
Order the replacement sandwich
Compliment it to the counter guy
Throw out the wrong pickles
DON'T
Email the franchise owner
Reread the menu board
Hold a candlelight vigil for turkey
You'll purchase a mattress horizontally.

You'll lie down on a showroom mattress after work and buy it on your back rather than stand up.
After work you'll walk into a mattress store to 'just look,' lie down on a pillow-top queen, and that's the day. The salesman tries every trick, then gives up and does the paperwork on a clipboard over your face. You'll sign seventy-two months without sitting up. The Full Moon's in your sign, also refusing to move. Get up before they sell the floor model with you on it.
DO
Test exactly one mattress
Decline the new sushi place
Sit up eventually
DON'T
Split dessert
Scooch over for romance
Get sold with the floor model
The fat, nosy, unblinking Full Moon parks in your sign tonight and refuses to move, so it's basically family. Somebody at work will ask you to try the new sushi place. No. Somebody will ask you to split dessert. Absolutely not. Beware a Swiffer-wielding Virgo, who will try to vacuum under you.

After work you'll walk into a mattress store to 'just look.' You'll lie down on a pillow-top queen, and that's the day. The salesman will try every trick he knows, then give up and do the paperwork on a clipboard over your face. You'll purchase the thing horizontally: seventy-two months, no regrets, eyes closed.

Money matters come to a head, and the head is on a pillow. Romance blooms, but it'll have to climb onto the bed to reach you, and you're not scooching over. A stranger brings news; you'll hear it lying down. Get up before they sell the floor model with you on it. Lucky number: 72. Lucky color: drool-spot gray.
DO
Test exactly one mattress
Decline the new sushi place
Sit up eventually
DON'T
Split dessert
Scooch over for romance
Get sold with the floor model
Gemini

May 21 – Jun 20 · Air · ruled by Mercury
Mute button will save everyone.

You'll deliver your best twelve minutes ever on mute this morning, and the meeting will go better without you.
Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind and squaring Jupiter, the planet of more: more talking, less of it reaching anyone. Expect to deliver the finest twelve minutes of your career on this morning's video call, on mute. Nobody stops you. When you unmute, the meeting has moved on, made a decision and looks relieved. Leave the mute on through dinner.
DO
Check the mute icon twice
Let the decision stand
Ask your sibling why they called
DON'T
Repeat the twelve minutes unmuted
Send a recap email
Unmute to say 'as I was saying'
Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind and squaring Jupiter, the planet of more. That means more talking, and less of it reaching anyone. Expect a technical failure on this morning's video call: you will deliver the finest twelve minutes of your career on mute. Nobody stops you. Why would they? Be wary of what you find when you unmute. The meeting has moved on, made a decision, and looks relieved.

Mars and Jupiter are both in Leo in your 3rd house of siblings and texting, so a sibling will call today for no reason, and you will talk for forty minutes without ever finding out why they called. Expect them to hang up satisfied anyway.

Uranus is retrograde in your own sign, trining Pluto and sextiling Neptune, which makes silence feel weirdly good to you for once. Retrograde Venus in your 5th house of romance agrees that the less said tonight, the better. Your instruction: find the mute button and leave it on through dinner.
DO
Check the mute icon twice
Let the decision stand
Ask your sibling why they called
DON'T
Repeat the twelve minutes unmuted
Send a recap email
Unmute to say 'as I was saying'
Lighthouses will eat your Monday.

You open one tab to answer a yes-or-no email, and by afternoon you're a lighthouse expert who never replied.
Mercury, your ruler, is backing through your daily-grind house, and the stalled task is one email that needs the word 'yes.' You open a tab to check a date, and by afternoon you can explain a Fresnel lens and have texted three friends foghorn facts. Avoidance, dressed as curiosity. Homework: type 'yes' and hit send before you open anything about any coastline.
DO
Type the word yes
Hit send before lunch
Close the Maine tab
DON'T
Watch the lighthouse documentary
Text anyone a foghorn fact
Apply to keep a lighthouse
The material today is Mercury, your ruler, backing up through your house of the daily grind, which is the astrological version of a task that refuses to get done. The task is one email. Somebody from work asks a yes-or-no question this morning, and the correct answer is three letters long. You open a tab to confirm a date. Watch what your mind does with an open tab.

By lunch you're reading about lighthouse keepers who lived alone on rocks off the coast of Maine. By midafternoon you can explain a Fresnel lens, you've watched a documentary at one-and-a-half speed, and you've texted three friends a foghorn fact nobody requested. Clinically, this is avoidance dressed as curiosity: as long as you're learning everything, you never have to finish one thing.

Tonight you'll explain lighthouses to anyone who stands still long enough, with hand gestures for the beam, and the email will still be sitting there unanswered, a light nobody's tending. Homework: before you open a single other tab tomorrow, type 'yes,' hit send, and sit with how small that was.
DO
Type the word yes
Hit send before lunch
Close the Maine tab
DON'T
Watch the lighthouse documentary
Text anyone a foghorn fact
Apply to keep a lighthouse
Your invented twin will score.

You'll dodge an old flame in the cereal aisle claiming you're your own twin, and they'll ask the twin out.
An old flame appears in the cereal aisle this afternoon, and you panic and say you're your own twin. They buy it instantly. They say the twin seems nicer. They ask for the twin's number, and you give it to them, because it's yours. Tonight your phone lights up for somebody else. Choose one twin and retire the other by Wednesday.
DO
Pick one weekend story
Retire a twin by Wednesday
Shop a different cereal aisle
DON'T
Answer your own number
Trust the mirrors
Say yes on the twin's behalf
Your mouth is working a double shift today. At work you'll agree with both sides of the office dishwasher war, warmly, in writing, and both sides will screenshot it by lunch. An unexpected windfall: a two-for-one coupon, the only kind of deal you've ever understood.

An old flame appears in the cereal aisle this afternoon. Panic. You'll tell them you're your own twin. They'll buy it instantly, which says a lot about the relationship. They'll say the twin seems nicer, taller, more honest. They'll ask for the twin's number. You'll give it. It's your number. Tonight your phone lights up for somebody else, and somebody else is you.

A friend will ask about your weekend; pick one version and commit to it. Avoid mirrors, which are now evidence. A peace-at-any-price Libra figures prominently and will agree with both of you. Compatibility: high with yourself, low with yourself. Choose one twin and retire the other by Wednesday. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: two-tone.
DO
Pick one weekend story
Retire a twin by Wednesday
Shop a different cereal aisle
DON'T
Answer your own number
Trust the mirrors
Say yes on the twin's behalf
Cancer

Jun 21 – Jul 22 · Water · ruled by Moon
Nine friends will ask why.

The group chat goes quiet, you apologize to nine friends for nothing in particular, and all nine ask why.
With your ruler, the Moon, full in your 11th house of friends and the internet, expect the group chat to go quiet this afternoon, which nobody notices but you. You'll apologize, one by one and in writing, to nine people for an offense you can't name, and nine replies will ask what you're talking about. Mars in your money house wants candles for everyone. Do not apologize for the apology.
DO
Let the chat stay quiet
Answer 'for what?' with 'nothing'
Send Saturn Friday's report
DON'T
Buy nine scented candles
Scroll back to August's photos
Apologize for the apology
Your ruler, the Moon, is full in Taurus in your 11th house of friends, groups and the internet, which is like installing a smoke alarm directly over your feelings. Expect the group chat to go quiet this afternoon for no reason anyone else notices. You'll notice. Be wary of the urge to apologize, one by one and in writing, to nine people for an offense you can't name, and expect nine replies asking what you're talking about.

The Moon squares Mars, which sits in Leo in your 2nd house of money with Jupiter, so the apology will try to become a purchase. Resist the urge to buy everyone a scented candle as a peace offering for a war that only happened in your chest.

Retrograde Venus in your 4th house of home drags you back through old photos of the same friends you just apologized to, and Saturn, retrograde in your 10th house of career, doesn't care about any of it and would like Friday's report. Your instruction: do not apologize for the apology. They'll ask what that one's for, too.
DO
Let the chat stay quiet
Answer 'for what?' with 'nothing'
Send Saturn Friday's report
DON'T
Buy nine scented candles
Scroll back to August's photos
Apologize for the apology
Zillow will list your childhood.

Your childhood home hits Zillow this morning, and by afternoon you're crying in the supply closet over gray paint.
Venus walks backward through your house of home and the past, and early a cousin sends the link: your childhood home is on Zillow. At work you zoom into photo fourteen hunting for the height marks on the door frame, now a tasteful gray, and you cry among the toner. Homework: close the listing and leave photo fourteen alone.
DO
Close the listing for good
Leave photo fourteen alone
Accept the thumbs-up
DON'T
Zoom into the door frame
Eulogize the split-level
Ask the new owners for visitation
The material we're working with is Venus, retrograde in your house of home and the past, which is a planet walking backward into your childhood bedroom. Early, a cousin texts a link with no comment, and you know before it loads. Your childhood home is on Zillow. Thirty-four photos. The kitchen has been 'opened up,' and that phrase will hit you like news from a front line.

At work you'll zoom into photo fourteen until the pixels give up, hunting for the door frame where somebody penciled your height every birthday. It's been painted over. A tasteful gray. You won't cry at your desk, technically; you'll do it in the supply closet among the toner, then come back and announce the closet is 'very dusty.'

Tonight you'll send the family group chat four paragraphs that amount to a eulogy for a split-level, and the replies will be one thumbs-up and 'lol they kept the shed.' Notice that what you're mourning isn't the house; it's that the house got along fine without you. Homework: close the listing and leave photo fourteen alone for the rest of the week.
DO
Close the listing for good
Leave photo fourteen alone
Accept the thumbs-up
DON'T
Zoom into the door frame
Eulogize the split-level
Ask the new owners for visitation
Intern's mother will call, threatened.

You'll pack the new intern a lunch with a 'so proud of you' note, and his real mother calls, furious.
A new intern starts this morning, looking twenty-two and underfed, so you'll pack him a lunch: crusts off, grapes de-stemmed, a napkin note that says 'So proud of you.' By afternoon his actual mother calls the front desk, territorial and threatened, and she's driving over with a better lunch. Let the intern's real mother win this one.
DO
Cut the crusts off
Return the glove, just the glove
Let his mother win
DON'T
Buy forty juice boxes
Keep the expired coupon
Sign the napkin 'Mom'
A new intern starts this morning, looking twenty-two and underfed. You'll pack him a lunch. Sandwich, crusts off, cut diagonally. Grapes, de-stemmed. A napkin note: 'So proud of you.' By afternoon his actual mother calls the front desk to ask who the hell you think you are. Threatened. Territorial. She's driving over with a better lunch to reestablish dominance.

An unexpected windfall: an expired Bed Bath & Beyond coupon in the junk drawer, which you'll keep forever, for the memories. Money matters come to a head when you buy a forty-pack of juice boxes for an office of adults. Watch out for a cold, leftover-refusing Scorpio, who will not take a plate home.

Romance blooms, and you'll swaddle it. Somebody cute drops a glove on the sidewalk; you'll return it with a lint roller, a granola bar and your entire childhood. Compatibility: high with anyone who keeps their baby teeth in a jar. Let the intern's real mother win this one. Lucky number: 22. Lucky color: strained-carrot orange.
DO
Cut the crusts off
Return the glove, just the glove
Let his mother win
DON'T
Buy forty juice boxes
Keep the expired coupon
Sign the napkin 'Mom'
Leo

Jul 23 – Aug 22 · Fire · ruled by Sun
HR will request fewer pages.

You'll turn in a nine-page self-evaluation with two headshots, and HR will ask for one paragraph and the photographer's name.
With the Full Moon in your 10th house of career and Mars and Jupiter inflating your own sign, expect this Monday's self-evaluation form to ask for a brief summary of your contributions, and be wary of what you call brief. Nine pages and two headshots are not brief. Somebody from HR will reply this afternoon asking for one paragraph. Cut it down. Keep the headshot.
DO
Cut it to one paragraph
Keep the better headshot
Let your mother and partner win
DON'T
Add a table of contents
Ask your mother for a rating
Cite yourself in the footnotes
The Full Moon falls in Taurus in your 10th house of career while Mars and Jupiter, the solar system's two hype men, stand in your own sign, and the result is a self-evaluation. Expect this Monday's review form to ask for a brief summary of your contributions, and be wary of what you call brief. Nine pages, a table of contents and two headshots are not brief. Who's reading this, the Pulitzer board? Expect somebody from HR to reply this afternoon asking for one paragraph and, gently, who took the photos.

The Sun, your ruler, is in Scorpio in your 4th house of home and family, squaring Pluto in your 7th, so a partner and your mother may end up on the same side of an argument about you today. That alliance is rare and terrifying. Do not ask either of them for a rating.

Mercury retrograde in your 4th squares Jupiter in your 1st, so everything you say about yourself today comes out bigger than it went in. Resist the urge to add an appendix. Your instruction: cut it to one paragraph. Keep the headshot.
DO
Cut it to one paragraph
Keep the better headshot
Let your mother and partner win
DON'T
Add a table of contents
Ask your mother for a rating
Cite yourself in the footnotes
Toddler will review your haircut.

Nobody at work mentions your new haircut, and the only review comes from a grocery-store toddler: 'funny.'
Mars and Jupiter crowd your sign, and the material is visibility: you walk into work with a great new haircut and nobody says a word. By afternoon you're loitering under the break-room lighting. After work, a toddler in a grocery cart studies you, points, says 'funny,' and returns to his Goldfish. That's the review. Homework: mention it to nobody tomorrow.
DO
Mention the haircut to nobody
Ask somebody about themselves
Stand in normal lighting
DON'T
Sigh about needing a haircut
Loiter under break-room lights
Request a second opinion from the toddler
Mars and Jupiter are both sitting in your sign today, which is a great deal of fire for one person, and the material it brings up is visibility. You got a haircut over the weekend. A good one. This morning you walk into work with it like a debut, and nobody says anything. Not the front desk. Not the guy who comments on everyone's shoes. You'll spend the first meeting touching it, the way a person taps a microphone to see if it's on.

By afternoon the defenses get creative. You'll stand under the good lighting in the break room. You'll sigh 'ugh, I need a haircut' to see if anyone corrects you. Nobody corrects you. What's coming up is old: the belief that if it wasn't witnessed, it didn't happen, and if it didn't happen, neither did you.

After work, in the cereal aisle, it finally happens. A toddler in a shopping cart turns around, studies you for a long, silent moment, points, and says 'funny.' Then he goes back to his Goldfish. That's the review. It's the only one you get. Homework: tomorrow, mention the haircut to nobody, and if somebody does, ask about them.
DO
Mention the haircut to nobody
Ask somebody about themselves
Stand in normal lighting
DON'T
Sigh about needing a haircut
Loiter under break-room lights
Request a second opinion from the toddler
Manager will card your birthday.

You'll fake a birthday at Applebee's for the singing waiters, and a manager will demand ID before the brownie.
After work you'll tell the waiters at Applebee's it's your birthday. It isn't; your license says August. They clap, they sing, they bring the brownie with the candle, and then a lanyard-wearing shift manager asks for ID. The brownie goes back to the kitchen. The next table claps anyway, which is worse. Tip the waiters for the song and leave through the kitchen.
DO
Tip the waiters for the song
Leave through the kitchen
Accept the pity riblets
DON'T
Show the manager your license
Ask the stranger to film
Bow to the next table
Big things are coming, mostly your hair, which you'll touch up in every reflective surface between home and work. A coworker will compliment your shoes; you'll describe them until lunch. A stranger will hold a door, and you'll walk through it waving, like it's Cannes.

After work you'll tell the waiters at Applebee's it's your birthday. It isn't. Your license says August. They'll clap. They'll sing. They'll bring the brownie with the candle. Then a lanyard-wearing, fun-hating shift manager asks for ID. You'll show it. The brownie goes back to the kitchen. The next table claps anyway, which is so much worse.

A tall stranger enters your life and leaves it the moment you ask him to film you. An unexpected windfall: a free side of riblets, out of pity. A beige, appetizer-splitting Libra looms and will not clap. Compatibility: high with mirrors, low with managers. Tip the waiters for the song and leave through the kitchen. Lucky number: 364. Lucky color: Applebee's apple red.
DO
Tip the waiters for the song
Leave through the kitchen
Accept the pity riblets
DON'T
Show the manager your license
Ask the stranger to film
Bow to the next table
Virgo

Aug 23 – Sep 22 · Earth · ruled by Mercury
Neighbor's doorbell will film you.

You'll re-sort the neighbor's recycling at the curb this morning, and his doorbell footage lands on Nextdoor.
Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in your 3rd house of neighbors, which puts you at the curb this morning with the neighbor's recycling bin and a greasy pizza box where the cardboard goes. You'll take it out, rinse a yogurt cup and re-sort the whole bin, and his doorbell camera will catch every second for Nextdoor. Put the pizza box back. Let him live in sin.
DO
Walk past the bin
Collect the dollar-twelve refund
Wave at the doorbell camera
DON'T
Rinse a stranger's yogurt cup
Send the dishwasher manifesto
Tape a laminated sorting guide on
Mercury, your ruler, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 3rd house of neighbors and short trips, which puts you at the curb this morning, looking into the neighbor's recycling bin. Expect a greasy pizza box in with the cardboard. Be wary: you will take it out, rinse a yogurt cup, flatten two boxes and re-sort the whole bin, and the neighbor's doorbell camera will record every second of it, in color, for Nextdoor.

Mercury also squares Mars and Jupiter in your 12th house of secrets, so your rage over how somebody at work loads the office dishwasher stays hidden today, and it grows. Jupiter makes bigger whatever it touches. By lunch it's a full manifesto you will never send.

Retrograde Venus in your 2nd house of money brings something back. Expect a refund of a dollar twelve that takes forty minutes on hold to collect, and expect to call it a win. Your instruction: put the pizza box back in the wrong bin and walk away. Let the man live in sin.
DO
Walk past the bin
Collect the dollar-twelve refund
Wave at the doorbell camera
DON'T
Rinse a stranger's yogurt cup
Send the dishwasher manifesto
Tape a laminated sorting guide on
You'll refold somebody's kindness tonight.

A sibling folds your towels in halves as a thank-you, and tonight you refold every one while they watch.
Mercury backs through your sibling house, and a sibling on your couch does your laundry as a thank-you and folds the towels in halves. You text 'thank you so much!!!' which is how you lie. Tonight, six feet from them, you refold every towel in thirds like a bomb tech, and they see. Homework: leave one towel in halves all week and visit it.
DO
Leave one towel in halves
Say thanks without exclamation points
Let the sibling help
DON'T
Fold the meeting handout
Refold anything within eyeshot
Laminate a towel diagram for guests
The material today is Mercury, your ruler, retrograde in your house of siblings, which means family is going to help you, and help is the most threatening thing a family can do. A sibling crashing on your couch does your laundry this morning as a thank-you. Folds it, too. You'll open the linen closet and find your towels in halves. Not thirds. Halves. You'll shut the closet very gently, like a door on a crime scene.

At work you'll be pleasant and elsewhere. You'll text 'thank you so much!!!' with three exclamation points, which, as we've established, is how you lie. In the afternoon meeting you'll catch yourself folding the handout. What's surfacing isn't about towels. It's that you have never once let anyone help you without grading the help afterward.

Tonight, with your sibling on the couch six feet away, you'll take the towels out one at a time and refold them in thirds, slowly, the way a bomb tech works. They will see. Nobody will say anything. Homework: leave one towel in halves at the front of the closet for a week, and visit it daily without touching it.
DO
Leave one towel in halves
Say thanks without exclamation points
Let the sibling help
DON'T
Fold the meeting handout
Refold anything within eyeshot
Laminate a towel diagram for guests
You'll be framed for yogurt.

You'll correct the grammar on the fridge's angry yogurt note, and by lunch the office decides you stole it.
A woman from accounting tapes a note to the office fridge this morning: 'WHO EVER TOOK MY YOGURT YOUR A THEIF.' You'll fix it in red pen and initial it. By lunch everyone knows exactly one person touched that note, and by afternoon you're the yogurt thief. Buy the woman a yogurt and say nothing about her apostrophes.
DO
Buy her a yogurt
Hide the red pen
Accept the Kohl's credit
DON'T
Initial anything today
Apologize for the baseboards
Footnote your alibi
A woman from accounting tapes a note to the office fridge this morning: 'WHO EVER TOOK MY YOGURT YOUR A THEIF.' You'll fix it in red pen. Three errors. You'll initial it. By lunch everyone knows exactly one person touched that note, and by afternoon you're the yogurt thief. You don't even like the flavor. Peach. Please.

An unexpected guest will see your baseboards, and you'll apologize for them. They're spotless. A sloppy, wet-glass-on-the-nightstand Gemini enters your home. Money matters come to a head over a $3.19 refund you've disputed since July. You'll win. It arrives as Kohl's credit. Avoid signing anything; your initials are now a confession.

A stranger brings romance, compliments your handwriting, and that's how they'll catch you. An anonymous tip line opens on the fifth floor, and every call is about you. Compatibility: high with the label maker, low with the woman from accounting. Buy her a yogurt and say nothing about her apostrophes. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: fruit-on-the-bottom peach.
DO
Buy her a yogurt
Hide the red pen
Accept the Kohl's credit
DON'T
Initial anything today
Apologize for the baseboards
Footnote your alibi
Libra

Sep 23 – Oct 22 · Air · ruled by Venus
Optometrist will choose for you.

You'll fail to pick between lens one and lens two this afternoon, so the optometrist gives up and prescribes the average.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 1st house and squaring Pluto, so how you see things is up for review, literally. Expect an optometrist's chair this afternoon and a patient professional asking 'better one, or two?' You'll ask to see them again eleven times, until the optometrist sighs and writes down the average. Saturn in your 7th wants a straight answer. Pick lens one.
DO
Pick lens one
Let your friends pick dinner
Answer your partner in one word
DON'T
Ask to see them again
Say 'anything' about dinner
Request lens one and a half
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your own sign and 1st house, conjunct the Sun and squaring Pluto, so how you see the world is up for review today, literally. Expect an optometrist's chair this afternoon and a patient professional asking 'better one, or two?' Be wary of your answer, which will be 'can I see them again.' Expect to see them again eleven times, until the optometrist sighs, stops asking and writes down the average.

Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house of friends make the group loud and decisive, which is your nightmare. When they ask where to eat after work you'll say 'anything,' they'll pick the one place you hate, and you'll smile through the whole appetizer sampler.

Saturn is retrograde in Aries in your 7th house of partners, so somebody close may want a plain yes or no on something small tonight. Resist the urge to say 'both.' Your instruction: pick lens one. It was always lens one.
DO
Pick lens one
Let your friends pick dinner
Answer your partner in one word
DON'T
Ask to see them again
Say 'anything' about dinner
Request lens one and a half
You'll watch from the stairs.

A man takes your movie seat tonight, and rather than speak, you apologize your way down to the stairs.
Bill-collecting Saturn sits in your house of other people, and tonight at the movies a man is in your reserved seat. Rather than say one sentence, you migrate down the row, apologizing seat by seat, until you watch the whole film from the steps by the exit sign. Homework: say 'I think you're in my seat' to the bathroom mirror ten times.
DO
Say 'that's my seat'
Book the conference room again
Rehearse at the mirror
DON'T
Say 'totally' about anything
Rate the theater five stars
Apologize to the exit sign
Today's material is consequence-dispensing Saturn, sitting in your house of other people, which means other people will finally cost you something. It rehearses early. Somebody from work is in the conference room you booked this morning, and you'll say 'oh, no, totally' and take your call in the stairwell. Note the word 'totally.' It's doing a lot of work for someone who wanted that room.

The presenting event is tonight at the movies. A man is in your reserved seat. Rather than say one sentence, you'll take the seat beside him, which belongs to a woman who arrives during the trailers, so you'll shift again, and again, a slow, apologetic migration down the row, until you watch the whole film from the carpeted steps by the exit sign, holding your popcorn like a lost-and-found item.

Afterward, whoever you came with, seated correctly the whole time, will ask why you didn't say anything. You'll say 'it was really fine' and rate the theater five stars. That's the fawn response, choosing a stranger's comfort over your own tailbone. Homework: tonight, say 'I think you're in my seat' to the bathroom mirror ten times, until it stops sounding like an apology.
DO
Say 'that's my seat'
Book the conference room again
Rehearse at the mirror
DON'T
Say 'totally' about anything
Rate the theater five stars
Apologize to the exit sign
You'll declare a nine-way tie.

Judging the office chili cook-off, you'll declare a nine-way tie, and all nine cooks will turn on you.
Somebody from work names you judge of this afternoon's chili cook-off because you're 'fair.' Fatal. Nine slow cookers, nine spoons, and you declare a nine-way tie with ribbons that say 'Valid.' By end of day all nine cooks have turned on you, and the ghost-pepper guy is making it personal. Pick one winning chili, any chili, and run.
DO
Pick one chili
Pocket the sidewalk twenty
Run after judging
DON'T
Print 'Valid' ribbons
Settle a stranger's bet
Make eye contact with ghost-pepper guy
Somebody from work will name you judge of this afternoon's chili cook-off, because you're 'fair.' Fatal. Nine slow cookers. Nine spoons. You'll declare a nine-way tie and hand out ribbons that say 'Valid.' All nine cooks will turn on you by end of day, and the guy with the ghost-pepper batch is going to make it personal. The woman who brought cornbread will call it a betrayal, which it is.

An unexpected windfall: a twenty on the sidewalk. You'll spend the evening deciding whose it is, and lose it in the wind. Avoid signing contracts; you'll sign both versions. A smug, sauce-stained Taurus figures prominently and has eaten every chili twice, for fairness.

Romance knocks, and you'll ask it Thai or Mexican until it goes home. Love is on the horizon; so is a second horizon, and you'll stand between them until dark. A stranger will ask you to settle a bet; decline, for the stranger's own safety. Compatibility: high with a coin toss. Pick one winning chili, any chili, and run. Lucky number: 9. Lucky color: no-preference beige.
DO
Pick one chili
Pocket the sidewalk twenty
Run after judging
DON'T
Print 'Valid' ribbons
Settle a stranger's bet
Make eye contact with ghost-pepper guy
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON

Oct 23 – Nov 21 · Water · ruled by Pluto
IT will reject your grudges.

IT forces a password reset this morning, and the system rejects all your enemies' names as 'previously used.'
With Mercury retrograde in your 1st house and sour compliance officer Saturn retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind, expect IT to force a password reset this morning. Every password you've ever had was the name of somebody who wronged you, plus the year. The system rejects them all as 'previously used.' Make the new one a flower. Not a revenge plan. A flower.
DO
Make the password a flower
Say 'nothing' with conviction
Leave the TAXES box taped
DON'T
Open the box labeled TAXES
Tell your partner what you're thinking
Add the IT guy to the list
With Mercury retrograde in your 1st house, digging through your own archives, and sour compliance officer Saturn retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind, expect IT to force a password reset this morning. Be wary: every password you have ever used was the name of someone who wronged you, plus the year they did it. The system will reject them one by one as 'previously used,' and for the first time in your life a computer will know you this well.

The Full Moon in Taurus falls in your 7th house of partners and lights up whoever is sitting across from you, who will ask tonight what you're thinking. Expect to say 'nothing.' Expect both of you to know it's the biggest lie of Scorpio season so far, and the season just started.

The Sun in your sign squares Pluto, your ruler, in your 4th house of home, so somewhere in your closet a box labeled TAXES that is not taxes will want to be opened. Resist. Your instruction: make the new password a flower. Not a nickname, not a date, not a revenge plan. A flower.
DO
Make the password a flower
Say 'nothing' with conviction
Leave the TAXES box taped
DON'T
Open the box labeled TAXES
Tell your partner what you're thinking
Add the IT guy to the list
Friend just wants your Crock-Pot.

A friend texts 'call me,' you spend the day preparing for betrayal, and she just wants your Crock-Pot.
The Sun squares Pluto, your ruler, almost to the degree, and early a friend texts 'call me when you get a sec.' You won't call. You'll scroll six weeks of thread, rank everything she knows, and assign the group chat sides. Tonight she asks to borrow your Crock-Pot, and you're disappointed. Homework: lend it, lid included.
DO
Call back within the hour
Lend the Crock-Pot
Include the lid
DON'T
Rank what she knows
Assign the group chat sides
Demand a chili cut as ransom
It's your season, and the material is the Sun squaring your ruler, basement-dwelling Pluto, almost to the degree, which is clinical shorthand for 'everything feels like a threat today, including weather.' Early, a friend texts: 'call me when you get a sec.' No emoji. No context. You will not call. Calling is what people without a strategy do.

At work you'll scroll back six weeks through the thread looking for the moment it turned. You'll draft a ranked list of everything she could possibly know. You'll stop sharing your location with her, as a precaution. By afternoon you've rehearsed a chilly 'hey, what's up' in the parking garage and privately assigned everyone in the group chat a side.

Tonight you finally call, braced like a hostage negotiator, and she asks to borrow your Crock-Pot for a chili cook-off. That's the whole thing. And what comes up, notice, isn't relief. It's disappointment that nobody betrayed you. Homework: lend her the Crock-Pot, and include the lid, which you were planning to keep as leverage.
DO
Call back within the hour
Lend the Crock-Pot
Include the lid
DON'T
Rank what she knows
Assign the group chat sides
Demand a chili cut as ransom
Murder mystery ends before salad.

At tonight's murder-mystery dinner you'll name the killer before the salad, and the actors will sulk through four courses.
Tonight is murder-mystery dinner theater, and the cast has no idea who just sat down. You'll name the killer before the salad: the butler, motive inheritance, accent from Ohio. The actors have nothing to do for four courses, the detective sulks into a dinner roll, and somebody at your table moves their chair an inch away. Let the next murder stay unsolved for one course.
DO
Sit facing the door
Let one course pass
File away the haircut
DON'T
Name the killer before salad
Reply to 'per my last email'
Cross-examine the butler's accent
Happy Scorpio season, you damp, brooding little cryptid. At work somebody will write 'per my last email,' and you'll add them to your will, as a warning. A coworker's new haircut will tell you everything about their marriage. You'll keep that for later.

Tonight is murder-mystery dinner theater, and the cast has no idea who just sat down. You'll name the killer before the salad: the butler, motive inheritance, alibi fake, accent from Ohio. The actors will have nothing to do for four courses. The detective sulks into a dinner roll. Somebody at your table quietly moves their chair an inch away from you. Smart.

At home, you'll rearrange the furniture so no chair has its back to a door. An unexpected windfall: a stranger's secret, overheard at the gas pump. A chatty, oversharing Gemini figures prominently and knows too much; by Wednesday you'll know more. Compatibility: low with anyone who's seen your Notes app. Let the next murder stay unsolved for at least one course. Lucky number: 0. Lucky color: dinner-theater blood.
DO
Sit facing the door
Let one course pass
File away the haircut
DON'T
Name the killer before salad
Reply to 'per my last email'
Cross-examine the butler's accent
Sagittarius

Nov 22 – Dec 21 · Fire · ruled by Jupiter
Out-of-office will announce your escape.

You'll set a joke out-of-office saying 'Gone, unclear when' this morning, forget it, and your boss gets it by lunch.
Jupiter, your ruler, is in your 9th house of travel and squaring Mercury retrograde in your 12th house of secrets, which is a secret escape plan leaking out of a laptop. Expect to set a joke out-of-office this morning, 'Gone, unclear when, don't wait up,' and forget it's on. Your boss, three clients and the guy from payroll get it by lunch. Turn it off. Then show up tomorrow.
DO
Turn off the out-of-office
Answer the 'are you alive' text
Show up tomorrow, somehow
DON'T
Book a trip to match it
Discuss Thanksgiving with a date
Update it to 'still gone'
Jupiter, your ruler, is in Leo in your 9th house of travel and big beliefs with Mars beside it, and it squares Mercury retrograde hiding in your 12th house of secrets. That's a secret escape plan leaking out of a laptop. Expect to set an out-of-office this morning as a private joke, 'Gone, unclear when, don't wait up,' and forget it's on. Be wary of the Moon in your 6th house of the daily grind, which makes sure your boss, three clients and the guy from payroll all get it by lunch.

Retrograde Venus in your 11th house of friends brings back a friend you stopped answering in 2022, who texts 'are you alive??' today. Expect to answer from your own couch like you're writing from a ferry.

Saturn, retrograde in Aries in your 5th house of romance, has the nerve to suggest commitment: a date may mention a plan for Thanksgiving, and you'll feel the walls close in like a middle seat on Spirit. Your instruction: turn off the out-of-office. Then show up tomorrow, which is the hard part.
DO
Turn off the out-of-office
Answer the 'are you alive' text
Show up tomorrow, somehow
DON'T
Book a trip to match it
Discuss Thanksgiving with a date
Update it to 'still gone'
You'll join book club spiritually.

A friend wants a twelve-month book club commitment, you reply 'count me in, spiritually,' and they make you honorary.
Jupiter, your ruler, swells in your house of big ideas and collides with a schedule: a friend sends the book club's twelve-month reading list and wants a yes by tonight. At work you'll price cargo-ship passage to Iceland instead. Tonight you reply 'count me in, spiritually,' and they make you honorary. Homework: read February's first chapter without checking a flight.
DO
Read February's first chapter
Answer with an actual yes
Put August in your calendar
DON'T
Price cargo ships at work
Say 'spiritually' about anything
Send regrets from a monastery
Today's material is Jupiter, your ruler, swollen in your house of travel and big ideas, and today it collides with the smallest idea there is: a schedule. Early, a friend sends the book club's reading list for the next twelve months, one book a month, and asks for a yes by tonight. You love books. You love the idea of books. What you can't survive is knowing where the hell you'll be next August.

Watch the escape hatch open. At work you'll research cargo-ship passage to Iceland, a Portuguese monastery that takes walk-ins, and a Montana fire lookout hiring for the season. You won't read the list. You'll skim it once, spot a nine-hundred-page Russian novel penciled in for February, and start treating February like a sentence.

Tonight you'll reply 'count me in, spiritually,' which in your dialect means no, and the group will make you an honorary member: a member who is never there. It will be the most accurate thing anyone has ever called you. Homework: read the first chapter of February's book tonight without checking a single flight.
DO
Read February's first chapter
Answer with an actual yes
Put August in your calendar
DON'T
Price cargo ships at work
Say 'spiritually' about anything
Send regrets from a monastery
Cousin will wait; you'll fly.

You'll go to pick up a cousin at the airport and fly to Albuquerque, leaving them at baggage claim.
A cousin needs a ride from the airport this afternoon. You'll park, walk inside, see the departures board, and buy a one-way to Albuquerque because the word looked fun. The cousin waits at baggage claim, watching strangers' luggage go around, while you text 'omw' from thirty thousand feet. Text the cousin before they start walking home.
DO
Read the arrivals board only
Text the cousin
Take the bump voucher
DON'T
Look at departures
Review the crypto guy's haircut
Text 'omw' from the sky
A cousin needs a ride from the airport this afternoon, and you'll volunteer, like a fool. You'll park, walk inside, see the departures board, and buy a one-way to Albuquerque because the word looked fun. The cousin waits at baggage claim, watching other people's luggage go around. You'll text 'omw' from thirty thousand feet.

An unexpected windfall: the gate agent offers a voucher to anyone who'll give up their seat. You'll take it and get rebooked somewhere even farther. Money matters come to a head at a Hudson News, where almonds cost nine dollars and you'll pay it, smiling, like a tourist in your own life.

A stranger in the middle seat wants to talk about crypto. You'll tell him the truth about his haircut, loudly, at altitude. Compatibility: high with anyone holding a boarding pass. A tight-fisted, spreadsheet-gripping Capricorn figures prominently and is the one paying for the cousin's Uber. Text the cousin before they start walking home. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: carousel gray.
DO
Read the arrivals board only
Text the cousin
Take the bump voucher
DON'T
Look at departures
Review the crypto guy's haircut
Text 'omw' from the sky
Capricorn

Dec 22 – Jan 19 · Earth · ruled by Saturn
You'll counteroffer your day off.

Your manager offers you Friday off this morning, and by afternoon you've counteroffered it into overtime and a Saturday check-in.
Backpedaling Venus is retrograde in your 10th house of career, turning the perks of work backward. Expect a manager to offer you Friday off this morning as a thank-you. You'll counteroffer a half day, then a working lunch, and by afternoon you've negotiated the reward into overtime with a Saturday check-in. Saturn, your ruler, waits at home with nothing to do. Take Friday off. You won't.
DO
Say yes to Friday
Leave the laptop bag home
Chip in without a receipt
DON'T
Counter a gift
Schedule fun for next quarter
Invoice the birthday envelope
Backpedaling Venus is retrograde in Libra in your 10th house of career, which turns the perks of work backward. Expect a manager to offer you Friday off this morning as a thank-you for the quarter. Be wary of your reflexes. You'll counteroffer a half day, then a working lunch, then a full Friday plus a Saturday check-in, and by afternoon you'll have negotiated a reward into overtime and called it a hell of a deal.

The Full Moon in Taurus lands in your 5th house of romance and fun and demands pleasure, which you'll schedule for later this fiscal year. A date tonight may notice the laptop bag. Resist the urge to say 'just in case.'

Mars and Jupiter in your 8th house of other people's money mean somebody from work comes around with a birthday envelope for a coworker. Expect to ask for a receipt. Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your 4th house of home, sitting there with nothing to do, waiting for you. Your instruction: take Friday off. Sit in the house. Touch nothing. You won't.
DO
Say yes to Friday
Leave the laptop bag home
Chip in without a receipt
DON'T
Counter a gift
Schedule fun for next quarter
Invoice the birthday envelope
Praise will arrive without metrics.

Your old grocery-store manager says he's proud of you, and you reply asking for the specific metrics.
Saturn walks backward through your house of the past, and this morning the man who managed your teenage grocery job comments 'Proud of you, kid' on LinkedIn. No metrics. You'll reply asking which accomplishment, specifically, and whether 'proud' is relative to your cohort. Tonight it's backed up to two clouds. Homework: reply 'thanks,' one word, no follow-up.
DO
Reply with one word
Eat lunch away from your desk
Let the compliment stand
DON'T
Ask what 'proud' means
Back it up twice
Request it on letterhead
The material we're working with is Saturn, your ruler, retrograde in your house of the past, which in archetypal terms is the stern father figure walking backward toward you with something to say. It arrives this morning on LinkedIn. The man who managed the grocery store where you bagged at sixteen comments on your work anniversary: 'Proud of you, kid.' Four words. No metrics. You'll read it eleven times before your coat is off.

Note the defense, because it's very you. You can't accept praise that wasn't earned against a target, so at work you'll reply asking which accomplishment, specifically, he's referring to, and whether 'proud' is relative to your cohort. Then you'll work through lunch, as if the comment were an advance you now have to pay back.

Tonight you'll screenshot it, file it in a folder named 'Performance,' and back that folder up to two separate clouds. You'll lie awake wondering whether he says it to everyone. He does. He said it to the mailman this morning. Homework: reply 'thanks,' one word, no follow-up questions, and let somebody be proud of you without an audit.
DO
Reply with one word
Eat lunch away from your desk
Let the compliment stand
DON'T
Ask what 'proud' means
Back it up twice
Request it on letterhead
Second-graders will fear compound interest.

You'll bring a forty-slide compound-interest deck to career day, and by recess a second-grader is crying about inflation.
An elementary school invites you to career day this morning, and you bring a forty-slide deck on compound interest. A second-grader asks if you have a dog; you answer with a chart. By recess one kid is crying about inflation and the firefighter who went before you has lost the room forever. Tell the children something nice about firefighters.
DO
Cut the deck to three slides
Mention a dog
Praise the firefighter
DON'T
Answer second-graders with charts
Decline flirting in writing
Explain the Roth at recess
An elementary school invites you to career day this morning. Mistake. You'll bring a forty-slide deck on compound interest. A second-grader asks if you have a dog; you'll answer with a chart. By recess one kid is crying about inflation, two want a Roth IRA, and the firefighter who went before you has lost the room forever.

Your love life heats up, and you'll ask it for a five-year plan. A stranger will flirt with you at the bank; you'll mistake it for a sales pitch and decline in writing. An unexpected windfall: a penny, heads up, which you'll deposit. A late, loud, helmet-headed Aries figures prominently, and you'll document it.

Somebody at home will ask if you've eaten today. You'll forward them your calendar. A man at the gym will say 'work smarter, not harder,' and you'll work harder at him, out of spite. Avoid relaxing; it's Monday, and you can smell it. Compatibility: high with Virgo, nonexistent with fun. Tell the children something nice about firefighters. Lucky number: 401. Lucky color: file-cabinet gunmetal.
DO
Cut the deck to three slides
Mention a dog
Praise the firefighter
DON'T
Answer second-graders with charts
Decline flirting in writing
Explain the Roth at recess
Aquarius

Jan 20 – Feb 18 · Air · ruled by Uranus
Suggestion box will be removed.

The office unveils a suggestion box this morning, you file forty-one suggestions by afternoon, and management quietly removes it.
The Sun in your 10th house of career squares Pluto in your own sign almost exactly: a standoff between you and whoever runs the place. Expect a suggestion box at work this morning. By afternoon you'll have filed forty-one suggestions, including a four-page proposal to abolish the box, and management will recognize the handwriting and quietly remove it. When it returns, submit one suggestion. Sign it.
DO
Submit exactly one suggestion
Sign your name to it
Answer feelings with feelings
DON'T
Disguise your handwriting
Send your partner a framework
Suggest a box for box suggestions
Pluto and the North Node sit in your own sign, and the Sun in your 10th house of career squares Pluto almost exactly: a standoff between you and whoever runs the place. Expect the office to unveil a suggestion box this morning. Be wary of your enthusiasm. By afternoon you'll have filed forty-one unsigned suggestions, including a four-page proposal to abolish the suggestion box, and with Mercury retrograde in your 10th, somebody in management will recognize the handwriting and quietly remove the box.

Mars and Jupiter in Leo sit in your 7th house of partners, so the person you live with or date may want to talk about feelings tonight. Resist the urge to answer with a framework. Uranus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 5th house of romance, reviewing your idea of affection, which is mostly sending links.

The Full Moon in Taurus lights your 4th house of home, where somebody has moved your stack of books about systems off the kitchen table. Do not call it authoritarian. Your instruction: when the box comes back, submit one suggestion. One. And sign it.
DO
Submit exactly one suggestion
Sign your name to it
Answer feelings with feelings
DON'T
Disguise your handwriting
Send your partner a framework
Suggest a box for box suggestions
Your band will sell minivans.

Your eleven-listener band soundtracks a minivan commercial, and by afternoon you're loyal only to their worst album.
Pluto, parked in your sign, comes for your identity: a coworker hums a song by the band you've loved since it had eleven monthly listeners, and she heard it in a minivan commercial. By afternoon you aggressively prefer their worst album, because no minivan could survive it. Homework: let tonight's commercial play unmuted and hum along once.
DO
Hum along once, audibly
Let the ad play unmuted
Let the coworker enjoy it
DON'T
Post your listening history
Call the jingle 'a loss'
Test-drive the minivan for closure
Today's material is slow-motion demolition crew Pluto, parked in your sign, and it comes for the thing you've built a personality on. Early, a coworker hums a song by the band you've loved since it had eleven monthly listeners. You'll ask where she heard it. A minivan commercial, she'll say. During Monday Night Football. You will need a moment, and you'll take it by the printer, like someone who just learned their treehouse is now a Chili's.

The defense is fast. By afternoon you'll have decided the band's real work was the first EP, the one recorded in a grain silo, and you'll start aggressively preferring their worst album because no minivan could survive it. You'll describe the commercial to two separate people as 'a loss for everyone.'

Tonight you'll draft a long post establishing that you liked them first, with a screenshot of your listening history from 2014. Nobody asked. What's surfacing is the fear that if the thing you love can belong to everyone, so might you, and then you're just a person. Homework: let the commercial play unmuted tonight, all thirty seconds, and hum along once, audibly, in the minivan's honor.
DO
Hum along once, audibly
Let the ad play unmuted
Let the coworker enjoy it
DON'T
Post your listening history
Call the jingle 'a loss'
Test-drive the minivan for closure
Drive-thru will answer in Esperanto.

You'll order at the Wendy's drive-thru in Esperanto, and the speaker will answer fluently, ruining everything about you.
Tonight at the Wendy's drive-thru, you'll order in Esperanto to make a point about something. The speaker crackles, then answers you in perfect, fluent Esperanto and asks if you want a Frosty with that. You drive off without the food, shaken, no longer the only one. The kid at the second window is your nemesis now. Go back and get your fries.
DO
Order in English, once
Go back for the fries
RSVP with an actual yes
DON'T
Mention the ham radio
Pitch the podcast to cops
Challenge the speaker to Klingon
At work, the Wi-Fi goes down, and you'll volunteer the ham radio in your trunk. Nobody asks why it's in your trunk. Everybody's thinking it. A memo goes out about 'innovation'; you'll reply-all in a font you made. A stubborn, chair-loyal Taurus figures prominently and will not learn Morse code.

Tonight at the Wendy's drive-thru, you'll order in Esperanto to make a point about something. The speaker will crackle. Then it will answer you, in perfect, fluent Esperanto, and ask if you want a Frosty with that. You'll drive off without the food, shaken to your core, no longer the only one. The kid at the second window will say 'ĝis revido' and mean it.

A friend invites you to something popular; you'll RSVP 'conceptually.' An unexpected windfall: somebody finally asks about your podcast. It's a cop, at a traffic stop, and he regrets it. Compatibility: high with the kid at the second window, who is now your nemesis. Go back and get your fries. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: Esperanto green.
DO
Order in English, once
Go back for the fries
RSVP with an actual yes
DON'T
Mention the ham radio
Pitch the podcast to cops
Challenge the speaker to Klingon
Pisces

Feb 19 – Mar 20 · Water · ruled by Neptune
You'll miss your stop twice.

You'll daydream past your stop this morning, then past it again on the ride back, and reach work around lunch.
The Full Moon lights your 3rd house of short trips, so this morning's commute is long, glowing and entirely unsupervised by you. Expect to drift past your stop staring at a pigeon, then drift past it again on the ride back, composing a song about the pigeon. Mercury retrograde in your travel house guarantees the second miss. Set four alarms for your stop. Obey one.
DO
Set four alarms
Sit facing away from pigeons
Pay back the thirty
DON'T
Finish the pigeon song
Spend the coat twenty
Ask the pigeon to wake you
The Moon is full in Taurus in your 3rd house of short trips, so this morning's commute is long, glowing and entirely unsupervised by you. Expect to drift past your stop staring at a pigeon. Be wary of the ride back, because you'll drift past it again going the other way, while composing a song about the pigeon. Mercury retrograde in your 9th house of travel guarantees the second miss. You reach work around lunch.

Loudmouth twins Mars and Jupiter are in your 6th house of the daily grind, so once you finally arrive you'll do a full day's work in ninety minutes, then stare at a stapler for the rest of the afternoon like it said something beautiful.

Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in Aries in your 2nd house of money, with Saturn retrograde right beside it, so expect to find a twenty in an old coat and feel rich until Saturn reminds you that you owe a friend thirty. Your instruction: set four alarms for your stop. Obey at least one.
DO
Set four alarms
Sit facing away from pigeons
Pay back the thirty
DON'T
Finish the pigeon song
Spend the coat twenty
Ask the pigeon to wake you
You'll inherit somebody's bad weekend.

A coworker mentions her rough weekend, and by tonight you're furious at her ex and buying yourself a sympathy candle.
Loudmouth Mars crowds your workday house, and early in the break room a woman from accounting says her weekend was 'a lot.' You ask what happened. By afternoon you're furious at a man you've never met over a breakup you weren't in, and after work you buy two 'New Chapter' candles, one for you. Homework: tomorrow, answer 'how are you' with one fact, then stop.
DO
Say 'that sounds hard' and stop
Buy exactly zero candles
Answer with one fact
DON'T
Ask 'what happened?'
Draft comebacks for her fight
Hate-follow her ex on Instagram
Today's material is loudmouth Mars, crowding into your house of the daily grind, which means more coworkers, which means more feelings for you to absorb like a paper towel in a commercial. Early, in the break room, a woman from accounting says her weekend was 'a lot,' and you say the most dangerous words in your vocabulary: 'Oh no, what happened?'

By lunch you know the whole breakup: the man, the Nashville trip he bailed on, the custody of the dog. She walks back to her desk lighter. You walk back to yours carrying all of it. By afternoon you're furious at a man you've never met, over a relationship you weren't in, drafting comebacks for a fight that ended on Saturday.

After work you'll buy her a forty-dollar candle called something like 'New Chapter,' then a second one for yourself, for the heartbreak you've adopted. The part of you that handles boundaries is on a permanent lunch break. Homework: tomorrow, when she says 'anyway, how are you?' answer with one fact about your own life, then stop talking.
DO
Say 'that sounds hard' and stop
Buy exactly zero candles
Answer with one fact
DON'T
Ask 'what happened?'
Draft comebacks for her fight
Hate-follow her ex on Instagram
You'll toast a stranger's retirement.

You'll drift into a stranger's Olive Garden retirement party, cry at the speeches, and end up holding the cake knife.
After work you'll drift into the wrong back room at Olive Garden and land in a retirement party for a man you've never met. You'll cry at the speeches and sign the card. By dessert somebody hands you the cake knife and asks for a few words, and you give them eleven minutes. Go home before they put you in the group photo.
DO
Read the sign on the door
Keep toasts under two minutes
Leave before the photo
DON'T
Chip in for the rod
Write a poem in the card
Accept the gold watch
After work you'll drift into the wrong back room at Olive Garden. It's a retirement party for a man who spent forty-two years in sheet metal, and you have never seen him before in your life. You'll cry at the speeches. You'll sign the card. By dessert somebody hands you the cake knife and asks you to say a few words, and you'll say eleven minutes of them.

An unexpected windfall: unlimited breadsticks, which is the most anyone has ever loved you. Money matters come to a head when they pass the hat for his fishing rod and you put in forty dollars for a stranger's hobby. Avoid signing contracts and greeting cards; you'll add a poem.

A mysterious stranger enters your life: the guest of honor's brother, in a quarter-zip. A weepy, louder-than-you Cancer figures prominently, sobbing at the next table, which you'll take personally. Go home before they put you in the group photo. Lucky number: 42. Lucky color: Alfredo white.
DO
Read the sign on the door
Keep toasts under two minutes
Leave before the photo
DON'T
Chip in for the rod
Write a poem in the card
Accept the gold watch

YA ROASTED!

WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-26 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris

Planet positions
Sun	3.3° Scorpio
Moon	10.5° Taurus
Mercury	20.6° Scorpio ℞
Venus	29.2° Libra ℞
Mars	15.9° Leo
Jupiter	23.6° Leo
Saturn	9.6° Aries ℞
Uranus	4.9° Gemini ℞
Neptune	2.2° Aries ℞
Pluto	3.1° Aquarius
North Node	26.4° Aquarius

TODAY'S ASPECTS

Sun square Pluto (0.2°, tense)
Neptune sextile Pluto (0.9°, easy)
Uranus trine Pluto (1.8°, flowing)
Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
Mercury square Jupiter (3.1°, tense)
Venus square Pluto (3.9°, tense)
Sun conjunct Venus (4.1°, fused)
Mercury square Mars (4.7°, tense)
Moon square Mars (5.4°, 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 Monday, October 26, 2026.