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. Shadow work, attachment styles, your mother. Fifty-minute hour, five-minute read. Lucky numbers. A stranger. A windfall. All lies, syndicated.
THE DOSE
The whole fate. He counted. One sentence. Fits in a notification. One paragraph. The reading, compressed. The whole reading. Sit down.
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Aries
Instructor will flunk you too.
You'll tailgate a student driver for six miles this morning, and the instructor will flunk you too.
With Saturn retrograde in your 1st house on Mars's own Tuesday, the brakes are on and you hate it. Expect your commute to park you behind a student driver doing a cautious twenty-two, and resist the urge to tailgate that STUDENT magnet for six miles. The instructor in the passenger seat is grading the whole road, and you're about to flunk. Stay three car lengths back and take notes.
DO
- Stay three car lengths back
- Signal like you're being graded
- Let a date finish sentences
DON'T
- Pay extra for express shipping
- Call a date a rematch
- Pass a student on the shoulder
With hall-monitor Saturn retrograde in your 1st house and retrograde Neptune sitting beside it, the brakes on your personality are on and the windshield is fogged. On a Tuesday, Mars's own day, that's cruel to a sign made entirely of accelerator. Expect your morning commute to put you behind a student driver doing a cautious twenty-two, and resist the urge to ride that STUDENT magnet for six miles. The instructor in the passenger seat is grading everyone on that road, and you are about to flunk.
Your ruler, Mars, sits in Leo in your 5th house with Jupiter, which inflates romance into a contact sport. Retrograde Mercury squares Mars from your 8th, so whatever you say to a date tonight leaves your mouth before it leaves your brain. Be wary of the word 'rematch.'
The Full Moon in Taurus lights your money house, which puts the slowest sign in the zodiac in charge of your wallet. This is not the day to pay for express shipping, express lanes or express anything. Stay three car lengths behind the student and take notes.
DO
- Stay three car lengths back
- Signal like you're being graded
- Let a date finish sentences
DON'T
- Pay extra for express shipping
- Call a date a rematch
- Pass a student on the shoulder
You'll race an unaware stranger.
You secretly race the woman on the next treadmill after work, and lose to someone reading a paperback.
After work a woman steps onto the treadmill beside yours with a paperback, and what comes up for you is a race she never entered. You sprint forty minutes against someone on chapter six, and she never once looks up. Later a friend posts a Wordle in two, and you call it suspicious. Homework, and it'll feel like death: step off the treadmill before she does.
DO
- Walk at her pace
- Reread this morning's email
- Congratulate the Wordle
DON'T
- Peek at her display
- Demand a Wordle rematch
- Lap her during her cooldown
Today's material: your ruler Mars takes a square from backpedaling Mercury, so the urge to compete arrives a full second before the thought does. After work, a woman steps onto the treadmill next to yours, and what comes up for you is a race. She hasn't entered it. She's reading a paperback. You match her pace, pass it, then clock her incline, and spend forty minutes at a dead sprint against someone on chapter six who never once looks up.
Tonight a friend posts a Wordle in two. You'll call it luck, then call it suspicious, then lie awake solving tomorrow's out of spite. The inner child we keep meeting isn't wounded, pal. It's a four-year-old who needs to be line leader, and it has a key fob.
At work, the email you answered this morning before you'd finished reading it said the opposite of what you replied to. You won't go back, because going back counts as losing. Homework, and it will feel like death: tonight, step off the treadmill before she does.
DO
- Walk at her pace
- Reread this morning's email
- Congratulate the Wordle
DON'T
- Peek at her display
- Demand a Wordle rematch
- Lap her during her cooldown
Waitress will disqualify your wings.
You'll eat ten ghost-pepper wings after work before the waitress starts the stopwatch, and pay thirty-one dollars to lose.
Romance is in the air, and so is capsaicin. After work you'll inhale ten ghost-pepper wings at a wing joint before the waitress even finds the stopwatch. No timer, no photo on the wall, and the challenge was only free for winners: thirty-one dollars, gone on a technicality. A Libra films everything. Today's order: wait for somebody to say 'go.' Just once. As a treat.
DO
- Wait for somebody to say go
- Order a large milk first
- Read the rules on the wall
DON'T
- Sign the waiver
- Trust the Tuesday voucher
- Touch your eyes until Thursday
Romance is in the air, and so is capsaicin. After work, a wing joint dares you to eat ten ghost-pepper wings in ten minutes, and you, clock-allergic, starter-pistol Aries, inhale all ten before the waitress even finds the stopwatch. No timer, no photo on the wall. Rules are rules, pal. A stranger at the bar will say 'doesn't count' with his whole chest.
Money matters come to a head. The challenge was free only for winners, so you'll pay thirty-one dollars to lose on a technicality. An unexpected windfall arrives: a voucher for a second attempt, valid Tuesdays only. Today is Tuesday. Smell that? That's a trap. Your eyebrows will sweat through two napkins and a sleeve.
A Libra figures prominently, mostly by filming. Avoid anything with the word 'waiver' on it. Your lips will be unavailable for comment until Thursday. Compatibility: high with milk, zero with patience. Today's order: wait for somebody to say 'go.' Just once. As a treat. Lucky number: 31. Lucky color: Scorched Clown Lip.
DO
- Wait for somebody to say go
- Order a large milk first
- Read the rules on the wall
DON'T
- Sign the waiver
- Trust the Tuesday voucher
- Touch your eyes until Thursday
-
Taurus
You'll finish the chicken first.
A minivan waits for your parking spot this afternoon, and you finish an entire rotisserie chicken before reversing.
The Full Moon sits in your 1st house and squares Jupiter, the planet of more, so expect a rotisserie chicken to get opened in a grocery-store parking lot this afternoon. Be wary of the minivan idling behind you with its blinker on, waiting for your spot. It will wait. You will finish the chicken. Finish the drumstick, then signal.
DO
- Finish the drumstick
- Defend the old expense form
- Keep the blinker off
DON'T
- Learn the new software
- Say 'I've always been like this'
- Make eye contact with the minivan
The Full Moon is in your sign, in your 1st house, and it squares Jupiter, the planet of more, so your appetite becomes a public event this afternoon. Expect to buy a rotisserie chicken on the way home and open it in the parking lot, and be wary of the minivan idling behind you with its blinker on, waiting for your spot. You will not leave until the chicken is finished. The minivan will learn patience. The chicken will learn nothing; it's a chicken.
Mercury, retrograde in Scorpio, sits in your 7th house and opposes that Full Moon, so a partner or a date brings up an old complaint tonight and you hear it backward, as a compliment. Resist the urge to say 'I've always been like this' as though that settles anything.
Your backpedaling ruler, Venus, is retrograde in your 6th house of the daily grind and squares Pluto, so when somebody at work tries to change one small procedure, you'll defend the old one like a birthright. This is not the day to learn the new expense software. Finish the drumstick, then signal.
DO
- Finish the drumstick
- Defend the old expense form
- Keep the blinker off
DON'T
- Learn the new software
- Say 'I've always been like this'
- Make eye contact with the minivan
Your pen will leave you.
A coworker borrows your good pen this morning, and you spend the afternoon tracking it like a custody case.
This morning somebody from work borrows your good pen, the heavy one, and promises to bring it right back. What comes up for you is a custody dispute. By lunch you've bought a CVS replacement and hate it on sight, and all afternoon you track the original across the office. Homework: let them keep the pen until Thursday. Don't mention the pen. Don't look at the pen.
DO
- Let them keep the pen
- Use the CVS pen
- Sleep on a moved pillow
DON'T
- Ask how the pen's doing
- Fix the pillow by neck
- Visit the pen at its desk
Today's material: the Full Moon is sitting in your first house like an interrogation lamp, so whatever you're attached to gets lit from below. This morning somebody from work borrows your good pen. The heavy one. The one that writes like it means it. They say 'I'll bring it right back,' and what comes up for you is something we usually only see in custody hearings. You won't ask for it. You'll just know where it is all afternoon, the way a dog knows where the mail carrier is.
By lunch you'll have bought a replacement at CVS, a perfectly good pen, and you'll hate it on sight. It's lighter. It clicks wrong. It's a pen-shaped insult, and you'll carry it in your pocket like a rebound, telling yourself this is about principle.
Tonight somebody at home moves your pillow two inches to make room, and you'll lie awake nudging it back with your neck. This isn't stubbornness, you'll explain to nobody; it's loyalty to objects that never asked for it. Homework: let them keep the pen until Thursday. Don't mention the pen. Don't look at the pen.
DO
- Let them keep the pen
- Use the CVS pen
- Sleep on a moved pillow
DON'T
- Ask how the pen's doing
- Fix the pillow by neck
- Visit the pen at its desk
You'll eat Saturday's candy tonight.
You'll eat Saturday's trick-or-treat candy tonight, then the replacement bag, in a CVS parking lot, four days early.
The Full Moon lands in your sign, and so does a family-size bag of Reese's meant for Saturday's trick-or-treaters. By tonight the bowl is empty, four days early, and the wrappers live in your couch. You'll drive to CVS for a replacement bag 'for the kids' and eat half of it in the parking lot. Today's order: hide the third bag from yourself. You'll find it.
DO
- Buy candy you hate
- Hide the bag up high
- Wipe your chin before answering
DON'T
- Check the couch cushions
- Use register two again
- Say it's for the kids
The Full Moon, the sky's biggest open fridge light, lands in your sign tonight, and so does a family-size bag of Reese's meant for Saturday's trick-or-treaters. Sometime after dinner the bowl by the door is empty, four days early, and every wrapper is living in your couch. A neighbor's kid will ring the bell in a practice costume. You'll answer with chocolate on your chin and nothing in the bowl.
An unexpected expense looms. Late tonight, sofa-sworn, bulk-aisle Taurus, you'll drive to CVS for a replacement bag 'for the kids' and eat half of it in the parking lot with the dome light on. Money matters come to a head at register two, where the cashier recognizes you from Sunday. Sunday was also candy.
A Scorpio figures prominently, counting wrappers. Avoid the seasonal aisle and the word 'fun-size.' Compatibility: high with sofa cushions, low with the doorbell. Today's order: hide the third bag from yourself, somewhere high. You'll find it. Lucky number: 3. Lucky color: Wrapper-in-the-Cushions Orange.
DO
- Buy candy you hate
- Hide the bag up high
- Wipe your chin before answering
DON'T
- Check the couch cushions
- Use register two again
- Say it's for the kids
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Gemini
You'll eat two lunches, badly.
You'll double-book lunch with a coworker and a sibling, then eat both, badly, at restaurants sharing one wall.
Retrograde Mercury in your 6th house squares Jupiter and Mars in your house of siblings, so expect a lunch with somebody from work and a lunch with a sibling to land at the same hour, at two strip-mall restaurants sharing one wall. You will try to attend both. Be wary of calling either absence 'a dentist thing'; the waiters talk. Pick one side of the wall.
DO
- Pick one side of the wall
- Order once and mean it
- Let the sibling win
DON'T
- Blame a dentist
- Text 'crazy day, lol'
- Tip one waiter to lie
Your ruler, Mercury, is retrograde in Scorpio in your 6th house of the daily grind, squaring Jupiter and Mars in your 3rd house of siblings. Translation: the work calendar and the family calendar collide at lunch. Expect to have promised the same hour to somebody from work and to a sibling, and to try to attend both, at two strip-mall restaurants that share one wall. Your two faces finally have to commute.
Uranus, retrograde in your own sign and your 1st house, trines Pluto, which makes your sudden reversals look almost graceful. You will change your order at both restaurants. Be wary of telling each table the other one is 'a dentist thing.' The waiters talk.
Saturn, retrograde in your 11th house, audits your friendships, and the Moon in your 12th means whatever you say at either table reaches the other one before you do. This is not the day to text the group chat 'crazy day, lol.' Pick one side of the wall and stay on it.
DO
- Pick one side of the wall
- Order once and mean it
- Let the sibling win
DON'T
- Blame a dentist
- Text 'crazy day, lol'
- Tip one waiter to lie
Your old Slack will testify.
Somebody reads your old Slack message aloud at this morning's meeting, and you argue against it, and lose.
At this morning's meeting, somebody from work reads your March Slack aloud, verbatim, to defend the plan you're now trashing. What comes up for you isn't shame; it's a debate, and March you wins, because March you had a chart. At lunch you call a show overrated that you recommended. Homework: pick one opinion right now and hold it until bedtime. Out loud. Witnessed.
DO
- Hold one opinion till bedtime
- Concede to March you
- Answer the music question once
DON'T
- Scroll back past March
- Review seasons you skipped
- Demand a recount from yourself
Today's material: your ruler Mercury is retrograde, which means old messages come back around like they still pay rent. At this morning's meeting, somebody from work pulls up a Slack you wrote in March and reads it aloud, verbatim, in defense of the plan you're currently trashing. What comes up for you isn't embarrassment. It's a debate. You'll argue against March you, point by point, and March you will win, because March you had a chart.
At lunch a friend raves about a show you told her to watch last month. You'll call it overrated before you remember, then pivot, then insist the first season was better, a season you never saw. We've discussed this: the self you present depends on who's holding the door.
Tonight a date asks what music you're into, and you'll give three answers, each with its own accent, and watch to see which one lands. Nobody, including you, will know which one is real, and that's the part you like. Homework: pick one opinion right now and hold it until bedtime. Out loud. Witnessed.
DO
- Hold one opinion till bedtime
- Concede to March you
- Answer the music question once
DON'T
- Scroll back past March
- Review seasons you skipped
- Demand a recount from yourself
Stranger will match both profiles.
One stranger matches with both your dating profiles tonight, then asks which one of you is paying.
Romance is in the air, twice. Tonight one stranger matches with both of your dating profiles, the one who hikes and the one who 'mostly reads,' and opens with 'So which one of you is paying?' Neither of you knows. Both of you start typing. A Sagittarius forwards both bios to the group chat. Today's order: delete one of you before dinner.
DO
- Delete one profile before dinner
- Pick one hobby and commit
- Let the match pay
DON'T
- Reply from both accounts
- Give two costume opinions
- Suggest a double date
Romance is in the air, twice. Tonight one stranger matches with both of your dating profiles, the one who hikes and the one who 'mostly reads,' and opens with: 'So which one of you is paying?' Excellent question. Neither of you knows. Both of you start typing. The hiker sends a trail emoji. The reader sends a semicolon. The match screenshots both and posts them to a subreddit about catfish.
A coworker will ask for your opinion on her Halloween costume at work. You'll give two. Both will reach her by lunch. An unexpected windfall: twelve dollars in the pocket of a jacket you swear you've never owned, which, for two-tabbed, two-faced Gemini, is technically true.
A Sagittarius figures prominently, forwarding both bios to the group chat. Avoid mirrors with good lighting. Money matters stay murky, since the match still wants to know whose card. Compatibility: high with yourself, alarmingly. Today's order: delete one of you before dinner. Lucky number: 2. Lucky color: Two-Tone Mood-Ring Teal.
DO
- Delete one profile before dinner
- Pick one hobby and commit
- Let the match pay
DON'T
- Reply from both accounts
- Give two costume opinions
- Suggest a double date
-
Cancer
'Ugh, Tuesdays' will summon lasagna.
A friend texts 'ugh, Tuesdays,' and by dinner you've DoorDashed her a lasagna and she's muted you.
The Full Moon, your ruler, lights your 11th house of the group chat and squares Jupiter in your money house. Expect a friend to type 'ugh, Tuesdays' before lunch and you to hear a cry for help. By dinner she has a lasagna, a weighted blanket and a candle on her porch, and by bedtime she has muted the chat in self-defense. Put the phone face down.
DO
- Read 'ugh' as just 'ugh'
- Put the phone face down
- Leave the couch where it is
DON'T
- DoorDash anyone a lasagna
- Text a crush like a nurse
- Sign anything 'love, Mom'
Your ruler, the Moon, is full in Taurus in your 11th house of friends, groups and the internet, which moves your entire nervous system into the group chat today. Expect a friend to type 'ugh, Tuesdays' sometime before lunch, and expect you to read it as a cry for help. It is not a cry for help. It is a Tuesday.
That Full Moon squares Jupiter, which sits with Mars in your 2nd house of money, and Jupiter has never once said 'that's enough.' Resist the urge to DoorDash her a lasagna, a weighted blanket and a scented candle by dinner. You'll do it anyway. Be wary when she mutes the chat to stop the deliveries; that isn't rejection, it's self-defense.
Venus, retrograde in your 4th house of home, has you shoving the couch back to where it sat in 2019, and retrograde Mercury in your 5th means anything you text a crush tonight reads like a note from the school nurse. This is not the day to sign anything 'love, Mom' by accident. Put the phone face down and let one adult have one Tuesday.
DO
- Read 'ugh' as just 'ugh'
- Put the phone face down
- Leave the couch where it is
DON'T
- DoorDash anyone a lasagna
- Text a crush like a nurse
- Sign anything 'love, Mom'
They'll see your triple like.
Friends post a dinner you missed, and you like, unlike and re-like it until somebody texts 'you okay?'
This afternoon friends post a dinner you weren't at, and you count the chairs. Then you like the photo, unlike it, and like it again, until the host's phone buzzes three times like a smoke detector and she texts 'you okay?' You reply 'totally!!', a hostage video in punctuation. Homework: reply 'looks fun.' Period. No emoji. Phone face down.
DO
- Reply 'looks fun,' period
- Eat sitting down
- Put the phone face down
DON'T
- Count the chairs
- Zoom in on the bread
- Label leftovers for the guilty
Today's material: your ruler, the Moon, is full in your house of friends and the internet, the astrological equivalent of leaving every light on in an empty house. This afternoon friends post photos from a dinner you weren't at. You'll count the chairs. You'll zoom in on the bread basket. Then you'll like the photo, unlike it, and like it again, and across town the host's phone buzzes three times like a smoke detector.
Tonight you'll cook dinner for one in a quantity suggesting the whole table is coming over to apologize. You'll eat it standing at the counter, then pack the leftovers into labeled containers for people who will never ask. This is what we call care with a return address.
What you're avoiding is one sentence, 'I'd have loved to come,' which costs nothing and would end this. Instead, when the host texts 'you okay?' you'll reply 'totally!!' with two exclamation points, a hostage video in punctuation. Homework: reply 'looks fun.' Period. No emoji. Then put the phone face down in another room, next to the leftovers.
DO
- Reply 'looks fun,' period
- Eat sitting down
- Put the phone face down
DON'T
- Count the chairs
- Zoom in on the bread
- Label leftovers for the guilty
You'll ground the delivery driver.
You'll hand tonight's DoorDash driver a scarf and a curfew, and by midnight you're his emergency contact.
A stranger arrives bearing pad thai. Tonight you'll hand the DoorDash driver a scarf, a granola bar and a curfew: text me when you get home. He will. By midnight you're his emergency contact, and he leaves you a five-star rating with the comment 'mom??' Today's order: let a grown man drive home without a juice box.
DO
- Tip, then close the door
- Turn off the porch light
- Let his actual mother worry
DON'T
- Ask if he's eaten
- Pack him a juice box
- Sign his field trip permission slip
A stranger arrives bearing pad thai. Tonight a DoorDash driver hands over your order, and you, smothering, soup-wielding Cancer, hand him back a scarf, a granola bar and a curfew. Text me when you get home. He will. By midnight you're his emergency contact. He set it up himself, from the parking lot, a little misty.
Money matters come to a head: you'll tip thirty percent, then Venmo him gas money because the street looked dark. An unexpected windfall: a five-star rating, of you, with the comment 'mom??' An old sweatshirt resurfaces in the hall closet. You will smell it. You will cry. Then you'll wash it and cry again, because now it smells like Tide.
A Capricorn figures prominently, rolling their eyes at your porch light. Avoid leaving it on; it attracts strays and you name them. Compatibility: high with anyone who looks underfed. Today's order: let a grown man drive home without a juice box. Lucky number: 30. Lucky color: Hall-Monitor Beige.
DO
- Tip, then close the door
- Turn off the porch light
- Let his actual mother worry
DON'T
- Ask if he's eaten
- Pack him a juice box
- Sign his field trip permission slip
-
Leo
Fire drill will feel personal.
The whole floor stands up at once during this afternoon's fire drill, and you bow before anyone explains.
The Full Moon lights your 10th house of career and squares Jupiter in your own sign, so your appetite for applause peaks right where your coworkers sit. Expect a fire drill this afternoon, and expect the whole floor to stand up at once. Resist the urge to read it as an ovation, and resist bowing. Somebody from facilities will see it. Take your bow in the car.
DO
- Exit with everyone else
- Let your mother talk first
- Bow privately, in the car
DON'T
- Thank the floor for coming
- Call dinner a power struggle
- Do an encore in the stairwell
The Full Moon lights your 10th house of career and squares Jupiter, which sits in your own sign next to Mars, so your need for an audience peaks right where your coworkers live. Expect a fire drill this afternoon. Expect the entire floor to rise from its chairs at once. Resist the urge to read that as a standing ovation, and be especially wary of bowing. Somebody from facilities will see it, and he will tell people.
Your ruler, the Sun, is in Scorpio in your 4th house of home and your mother, squaring Pluto in your 7th. Retrograde Mercury in that same 4th house squares big-mouthed Jupiter in your 1st, so a call home tonight becomes forty minutes about you, with your mother as the studio audience. She will clap on cue. Don't mistake that for anything either.
With Pluto in your house of partners locked in a square with your ruler, a date or a partner may decline to applaud something you did today, and you'll treat it like a power struggle. It isn't. It's a person eating dinner. Stand in the parking lot with everyone else, and take your bow in the car.
DO
- Exit with everyone else
- Let your mother talk first
- Bow privately, in the car
DON'T
- Thank the floor for coming
- Call dinner a power struggle
- Do an encore in the stairwell
Your story will acquire sharks.
A coworker's lunch story gets the bigger laugh, and by dessert your rebuttal involves a shark in a lake.
At lunch somebody from work tells a story about getting locked out of a hotel room in a towel, and the table laughs harder than it ever has for you. You launch a rebuttal, and every time it doesn't land it grows, until by dessert you've survived a shark in a lake. Homework: before you leave work, ask the towel guy to tell it again, and laugh. Don't add a shark.
DO
- Laugh at the towel story
- Ask him to tell it again
- Let the phone win tonight
DON'T
- Top anyone's story today
- Perform in the doorway
- Name the shark
Today's material: Mars and Jupiter are both parked in your first house, so the ego isn't just inflated today, it's armed. At lunch somebody from work tells a story about getting locked out of a hotel room in a towel, and the table laughs harder than it has ever laughed for you. What comes up is an injury roughly the size of a parade float. You wait one polite beat, launch a rebuttal, and every time it doesn't land it grows, until by dessert you've survived a shark in a lake that doesn't have sharks.
Tonight somebody across the room laughs out loud at a stranger's video on their phone, and you'll stand in the doorway doing material until they look up. They won't. Here's the pattern: you don't need the room, you need the room to need you, and today the room has a phone.
What you're avoiding is the plain fact that the towel story was funny as hell. Laughing at it would have cost you nothing but the crown, which is plastic and comes back by Thursday. Homework: before you leave work, find the towel guy, ask him to tell it again, and laugh. Don't add a shark.
DO
- Laugh at the towel story
- Ask him to tell it again
- Let the phone win tonight
DON'T
- Top anyone's story today
- Perform in the doorway
- Name the shark
Karaoke DJ will unplug you.
You'll do an unrequested encore at tonight's karaoke, and the DJ unplugs the speaker, then the neon sign.
Fame finds you tonight at a dive bar's Tuesday karaoke. You'll do all six minutes of 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' every part, then an encore nobody requested because somebody coughed and you heard applause. The DJ unplugs the speaker, then the machine, then the neon Coors sign. A bachelorette party throws a dollar to make you stop. Today's order: hand the microphone to somebody else and let go.
DO
- Sign up for one song
- Let a bachelorette go next
- Leave when the sign dies
DON'T
- Hear a cough as applause
- Tip the DJ twenty
- Sing the piano part
Fame finds you tonight at a dive bar's Tuesday karaoke. Spotlight-starved, encore-addicted Leo, you'll do all six minutes of 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' every part, including the piano, then launch an encore nobody requested, because somebody coughed and you heard a standing ovation. The DJ will unplug the speaker. Then the machine. Then the neon Coors sign. You'll keep going in the dark.
An unexpected windfall: a bachelorette party throws a dollar at you. It was meant to make you stop. Money matters come to a head when you tip the DJ twenty to plug it back in, and he pockets it and doesn't.
A Virgo figures prominently, filming for evidence. Avoid falsetto, bar stools and the phrase 'one more.' Your Uber driver will hear the second chorus from the parking lot. Compatibility: high with spotlights, low with everybody behind you waiting for theirs. Today's order: hand the microphone to somebody else and let go of it. Lucky number: 1. Lucky color: Dead-Microphone Gray.
DO
- Sign up for one song
- Let a bachelorette go next
- Leave when the sign dies
DON'T
- Hear a cough as applause
- Tip the DJ twenty
- Sing the piano part
-
Virgo
Coworker will see your backseat.
A coworker opens your back seat this afternoon, and every memo you've written about shared spaces dies there.
Retrograde Mercury in your 3rd house of short trips squares Mars and Jupiter in your 12th, the house of secrets, and today the secret is your back seat. Expect somebody from work to need a ride this afternoon and open the rear door before you can stop them. They will see the takeout bags. They will see the lone shoe. Say the shoe is a long story.
DO
- Say the shoe is a long story
- Drive with the windows down
- Dispute the $3.18
DON'T
- Correct anyone's anything
- Ask a rep to spell her name
- Let anyone near the trunk
Your ruler, Mercury, is retrograde in your 3rd house of short trips and squares Mars and Jupiter in your 12th, the house of secrets. Today the secret is your back seat. Expect somebody from work to need a ride this afternoon and to open the rear door before you can stop them. Be wary of the moment their face changes. They will see the takeout bags. They will see the lone shoe.
Venus, retrograde in Libra in your 2nd house of money, sends you back through last month's receipts hunting a $3.18 overcharge, and you will find it, and you will call. Resist the urge to ask the customer service rep to spell her own name back to you.
With the Moon opposite Mercury from your 9th, the coworker quotes your own memos back to you on the drive, specifically the one about keeping shared spaces clean. This is not the day to correct anyone's anything. Drive with the windows down and say the shoe is a long story.
DO
- Say the shoe is a long story
- Drive with the windows down
- Dispute the $3.18
DON'T
- Correct anyone's anything
- Ask a rep to spell her name
- Let anyone near the trunk
Somebody will correct your email.
Somebody replies-all to flag your typo this morning, and you spend the afternoon auditing every email since 2019.
This morning somebody from work replies-all, to forty-one people, to point out you wrote 'pubic' instead of 'public.' What comes up for you isn't a feeling; it's an audit, and you spend the afternoon rereading every email since 2019. You'll find four more. Homework, and it'll hurt: send one text with a typo in it on purpose. No asterisk.
DO
- Send one typo on purpose
- Close the sent folder
- Let 'their' stand
DON'T
- Reply-all with a correction
- Proofread the drawer labels
- Send the asterisk
Today's material: your ruler Mercury is retrograde and squaring Mars, which in clinical terms means the red pen is pointed the other way. This morning somebody from work replies-all, to forty-one people, to point out you wrote 'pubic' instead of 'public.' What comes up for you isn't a feeling. It's an audit. You'll spend the afternoon rereading every email you've sent since 2019, and you'll find four more, and none of them matter, and every one will lodge in you like a splinter.
After work you'll reorganize the junk drawer, which isn't a junk drawer, which already has labeled sections, and you'll relabel the sections and then proofread the labels. This is self-soothing, the way other people take a bath, if a bath came with a label maker.
Late tonight a friend texts 'their going to love it,' and you'll feel the correction rising like a sneeze. You'll hold it. Barely. Homework, and it'll hurt: send one text with a typo in it on purpose, and do not send the asterisk.
DO
- Send one typo on purpose
- Close the sent folder
- Let 'their' stand
DON'T
- Reply-all with a correction
- Proofread the drawer labels
- Send the asterisk
You'll proofread a stranger's forearm.
You'll tell a gym stranger his forearm says 'Only God Can Juge Me,' then offer to buy the D.
A stranger reveals himself at the gym this morning: a large man curling forty-pound dumbbells, his forearm reading 'Only God Can Juge Me.' You will tell him, with your finger on the missing D. God was busy, so you judged him. The tattoo parlor quotes two hundred dollars for the fix, and you offer to pay. Today's order: let one typo live.
DO
- Admire tattoos from far away
- Let one typo live
- Skip the free weights
DON'T
- Point at the missing D
- Offer to fund the fix
- Spell 'judge' aloud near him
A stranger will reveal himself at the gym this morning: a large man curling forty-pound dumbbells, and on his forearm, in permanent ink, 'Only God Can Juge Me.' Red-penned, spell-checked Virgo, you will tell him. Gently. With your finger on the missing D. He'll set the dumbbells down very slowly. God was busy, so you judged him.
An unexpected expense: you'll offer to pay for the fix, because an unfixed typo is a noise only you can hear. The tattoo parlor quotes two hundred dollars for a single D. Money matters come to a head, and the D wins. A coworker will ask why you look rattled at lunch. You'll correct her grammar instead of answering.
A Taurus figures prominently, spotting him and staring at you. Avoid the free-weights area for the rest of your natural life. Compatibility: high with spellcheck, low with forearms. Today's order: let one typo live. Just one. Wave at it as you pass. Lucky number: 200. Lucky color: Correction-Fluid White.
DO
- Admire tattoos from far away
- Let one typo live
- Skip the free weights
DON'T
- Point at the missing D
- Offer to fund the fix
- Spell 'judge' aloud near him
-
Libra
Your rideshare will leave mid-outfit.
You'll change outfits six times while your rideshare idles, and the driver leaves, charging a fee for your indecision.
Venus, your ruler, is retrograde in your 1st house and fused with the Sun, which turns getting dressed into a summit. Expect to change outfits six times this evening while a rideshare idles outside, and expect the driver to leave around the belt decision. The cancellation fee lands before the shoes do. Wear the first outfit and get in the next car.
DO
- Wear the first outfit
- Pay the fee without a poll
- Get in the next car
DON'T
- Ask the group chat which jacket
- Dispute the fee, undecidedly
- Change belts in the driveway
Your ruler, Venus, is retrograde in your own sign and your 1st house, fused with the Sun and squaring Pluto, which makes how you look today a question with no answer. Expect to change outfits six times this evening while a rideshare idles outside. Expect the second outfit to be the first outfit with a different belt. Be wary of the little car icon in the app; it isn't waiting for you, it's deciding.
Mercury, retrograde in your 2nd house of money, reverses every payment you thought was final, so the cancellation fee arrives before the shoes do. Resist the urge to dispute it. You'll be undecided about disputing it, too.
Mars and Jupiter in your 11th house mean the friends waiting at the bar order without you, loudly, and Saturn retrograde in your house of partners guarantees one of them says 'it's fine' in a tone that is not. This is not the day to poll the group chat about the jacket. Wear the first outfit and get in the next car.
DO
- Wear the first outfit
- Pay the fee without a poll
- Get in the next car
DON'T
- Ask the group chat which jacket
- Dispute the fee, undecidedly
- Change belts in the driveway
You'll eat the wrong order.
The waiter brings you somebody else's beet salad at lunch, and you eat every beet rather than mention it.
At lunch the waiter brings you somebody else's beet salad, and you ordered the burger. What comes up for you is a little white flag: you say 'this looks great,' eat every damn beet, and tip extra so he knows there are no hard feelings he never had. Across the room, a man loves your burger. Homework: before dinner, say 'actually, no' to one person, and don't fill the silence.
DO
- Say 'actually, no' once
- Let the silence sit
- Give feedback in one sentence
DON'T
- Call her deck 'brave'
- Tip for your own cowardice
- Thank the man eating your burger
Today's material: your ruler Venus is retrograde in your own first house and fused to the Sun, so the part of you that needs to be liked is standing in direct light. At lunch the waiter brings you somebody else's order, a beet salad with goat cheese, and you ordered the burger. What comes up for you is a little white flag. You'll say 'oh, this looks great,' eat every damn beet, and tip extra so he knows there are no hard feelings he never had.
This afternoon somebody from work asks what you really think of her slide deck, and you'll call it 'bold,' 'a choice' and 'so brave,' each of which she'll correctly hear as no. You'd rather lie in three adjectives than disagree in one.
What you're avoiding is four words: 'this isn't my order.' You'd rather swallow them with the beets. Somewhere across the room, a man is eating your burger and loving it. Homework: before dinner, say 'actually, no' to one person about one thing, then sit in the silence without filling it.
DO
- Say 'actually, no' once
- Let the silence sit
- Give feedback in one sentence
DON'T
- Call her deck 'brave'
- Tip for your own cowardice
- Thank the man eating your burger
Cashier's questions will bankrupt you.
You'll say yes to every question at the register and leave insuring a toaster you don't own.
Money matters come to a head at a Best Buy register this afternoon. You came for one HDMI cable, and you'll say yes to every question on the little screen: rewards card, charity round-up, text receipts, a two-year protection plan on a toaster you don't own. The cashier then sells you two tickets to his improv show. Today's order: say 'no' out loud, once, to a machine.
DO
- Buy only the HDMI cable
- Practice 'no' in the car
- Pay cash and run
DON'T
- Read the little screen
- Apologize to the store manager
- Buy a toaster for the warranty
Money matters come to a head this afternoon at a Best Buy register, where you went in for one HDMI cable. Yes-saying, eye-contact-craving Libra, you will say yes to every question on the little screen. Rewards card, yes. Round up for charity, sure. Text receipts, of course. A two-year protection plan on a toaster you don't own? Well, he seemed so hopeful.
Romance is in the air, specifically the cashier's, who will then ask if you'd like two tickets to his improv show. You will. Front row. You don't have a second person. A stranger behind you in line will sigh, then apologize, and you'll apologize back until the store manager comes over to apologize too.
An Aries figures prominently, three people back, tapping a foot in Morse code. Avoid every screen that asks a question, including the self-checkout and your own phone. Compatibility: high with everyone, which is the problem. Today's order: say 'no' out loud, once, to a machine. Lucky number: 24. Lucky color: Extended-Warranty Blue.
DO
- Buy only the HDMI cable
- Practice 'no' in the car
- Pay cash and run
DON'T
- Read the little screen
- Apologize to the store manager
- Buy a toaster for the warranty
-
Scorpio BIRTHDAY SEASON
Driveway brooding will go public.
Location sharing reveals you've spent every evening since August brooding in your own driveway, and tonight somebody finally notices.
The Sun squares Pluto, your ruler, in your 4th house of home, so expect to park after work and sit in the dark car brooding at your own front door, as is your custom. Retrograde Mercury in your 1st flips on location sharing, and the Full Moon in your partner house shows someone you've been 'stuck in traffic' in the driveway since August. Go inside. Keep calling it traffic.
DO
- Go inside eventually
- Keep calling it traffic
- Check your location settings
DON'T
- Explain the driveway
- Answer emails nobody sent
- Brood with the dome light on
With the Sun and retrograde Mercury both in your 1st house, it's your season, and the Sun squares your ruler, grudge-hoarding Pluto, in Aquarius in your 4th house of home. That's a tense line drawn straight to your driveway. Expect to get home after work and not go in. Expect to sit in the parked car with the engine off, brooding at your own front door for forty minutes, as is your custom.
Mercury, retrograde in your 1st, reverses a setting you swore you'd turned off, and the Full Moon in Taurus opposes it from your 7th house of partners. Be wary of location sharing. A partner may learn tonight that you've been 'stuck in traffic' in the driveway every evening since August, and a Full Moon is not a light that dims.
Mars and Jupiter in your 10th house make you formidable at work, and Saturn retrograde in your 6th slows you down, so you'll spend the afternoon drafting a devastating reply to an email nobody sent. This is not the day to explain the driveway. Go inside and keep calling it traffic.
DO
- Go inside eventually
- Keep calling it traffic
- Check your location settings
DON'T
- Explain the driveway
- Answer emails nobody sent
- Brood with the dome light on
Your revenge will become friendship.
A man cuts you at the microwave, and your revenge research ends with you buying him a birthday card.
At lunch a man from accounting cuts you at the microwave, holding soup, and what comes up isn't anger; it's research. By afternoon you know his commute and his dog's Instagram, and that his birthday is Thursday and nobody knows. After work you buy him a card and call it cover. Homework: sign it with your real name, leave it on his desk, and don't mention the soup.
DO
- Sign your real name
- Deliver the card Thursday
- Let him have the microwave
DON'T
- Follow his dog's account
- Open a file on him
- Mention the soup
Today's material: it's your season, and the Sun is squaring your ruler Pluto, so every small slight lands like a declaration of war. At lunch a man from accounting cuts in front of you at the office microwave, no glance, holding soup. What comes up for you isn't anger, which would be healthy. It's research. By afternoon you know his commute, his fantasy football record and his dog's Instagram, and you're building a revenge so slow it'll need a pension.
Then the file turns on you. Somewhere in it you learn his birthday is Thursday and nobody at the office knows. After work you'll buy him a card at Walgreens, the seven-dollar kind with a sound chip, and tell yourself it's cover. This is the shadow material we keep circling: you can't get close to anybody unless you're calling it a vendetta.
Tonight you'll hide the card in a drawer at home, under the other things nobody's allowed to see, and when someone asks why you're smiling, you'll say 'nothing' with the face of a person burying something. Homework: sign the card with your real name, leave it on his desk Thursday, and do not mention the soup.
DO
- Sign your real name
- Deliver the card Thursday
- Let him have the microwave
DON'T
- Follow his dog's account
- Open a file on him
- Mention the soup
You'll lip-read gossip about you.
You'll lip-read a couple's gossip three tables over tonight, and the creep they're whispering about is you.
Happy Scorpio season. Tonight at a restaurant you'll lip-read a couple three tables over, for sport. They're gossiping about a creep. You'll decode 'creep,' then 'staring,' then 'the one in all black,' and you, the one in all black, will keep staring to get the rest. The waiter asks if you're with them. Today's order: eat dinner facing the wall.
DO
- Sit facing the wall
- Wear one color besides black
- File the fish secret away
DON'T
- Read lips three tables over
- Pick a booth with a mirror
- Tell the waiter 'not yet'
Happy Scorpio season, you damp little trench coat. Tonight at a restaurant you'll lip-read a couple three tables over, for sport, the way other people do crosswords. They're gossiping about a creep. You'll decode 'creep' in real time, then 'staring,' then 'the one in all black,' and you, the one in all black, will keep staring to get the rest. The waiter will ask if you're with them. You'll say 'not yet.'
An office secret falls into your lap at work: who's been microwaving fish. Grudge-filing, ledger-keeping Scorpio, you will not report it. You'll store it in a drawer with the others, like a dragon hoarding leverage. A coworker will say 'you're quiet today.' You are always quiet today.
A Gemini figures prominently, blabbing, which you'll write down. Avoid booths with a mirror behind them. Compatibility: high with anyone who doesn't look up. Today's order: eat dinner facing the wall, like a grounded child. Lucky number: 13. Lucky color: Witness-Description Black.
DO
- Sit facing the wall
- Wear one color besides black
- File the fish secret away
DON'T
- Read lips three tables over
- Pick a booth with a mirror
- Tell the waiter 'not yet'
-
Sagittarius
Judge will excuse you personally.
A judge asks the jury pool about strong opinions this morning, you share all of yours, and you're excused personally.
Jupiter, your ruler, sits with Mars in your 9th house of law and big beliefs, so expect a jury summons to land you in a courtroom this morning. Be wary when the judge asks whether anyone holds strong opinions; retrograde Mercury squares Jupiter, and yours come out in the wrong order. The judge excuses you personally. Say thank you and use the door.
DO
- Answer only the question asked
- Thank the judge
- Use the door
DON'T
- Call your job 'a phase'
- Announce your commitment issues
- Leave through the courthouse window
Your ruler, loudmouth Jupiter, sits with Mars in your 9th house, the house of law, big beliefs and the unsolicited lecture. Expect a jury summons to land you in a courtroom this morning, and be wary when the judge asks whether anyone holds strong opinions. You hold all of them. Retrograde Mercury in your 12th squares Jupiter, so they come out in the wrong order, and the judge excuses you personally while the defendant visibly relaxes.
The Moon, full in Taurus in your 6th house of the daily grind, squares that same Jupiter, which makes an ordinary Tuesday at work feel like a cage with fluorescent lighting. Resist the urge to describe your job as 'a phase' to anyone who signs your timesheet.
Saturn, retrograde in your 5th house of romance, puts a date on probation, and Venus retrograde in your 11th drags you back toward a friend group you ghosted in spring. This is not the day to announce 'I'm not a commitment person' out loud, least of all in a courthouse. Say thank you to the judge and use the door.
DO
- Answer only the question asked
- Thank the judge
- Use the door
DON'T
- Call your job 'a phase'
- Announce your commitment issues
- Leave through the courthouse window
A Peruvian will fact-check you.
You steer a lunch chat about soup to your 2019 Peru trip, and a coworker from Lima fact-checks you.
At lunch a coworker mentions soup, and within ninety seconds you're on the Inca Trail in 2019, describing a broth from a village you can't name. The new hire nods. The new hire is from Lima, and she gently explains the soup is Bolivian. Homework: tell one story today that happened within ten miles of your house. If you can't, that's the session.
DO
- Tell a local story
- Answer where you grew up
- Unpack the backpack's top pocket
DON'T
- Say 'when I was in Peru'
- Describe any broth
- Correct the woman from Lima
Today's material: your ruler Jupiter is in your house of travel and big beliefs, squared by retrograde Mercury, which is clinical shorthand for the mouth getting a passport while the brain stays home. At lunch a coworker mentions she's making soup this week, and within ninety seconds you're on the Inca Trail in 2019, describing a broth a woman made you in a village you can't name. The new hire nods. The new hire is from Lima. She'll gently explain the soup you're describing is Bolivian.
Tonight a date asks something simple, like where you grew up, and you'll answer with a hostel. This is the pattern: any question pointed at the present gets rerouted to an airport. You're not open, you're just never home when anyone knocks.
At home the backpack from that trip is still by the door, half-packed, like a getaway car for a robbery you keep not committing. Homework: tell one story today that happened within ten miles of your house. If you can't find one, that's the session.
DO
- Tell a local story
- Answer where you grew up
- Unpack the backpack's top pocket
DON'T
- Say 'when I was in Peru'
- Describe any broth
- Correct the woman from Lima
You'll quit the gym mid-tour.
You'll sign a twelve-month gym contract this morning and quit mid-tour, before the salesman reaches the smoothie bar.
A stranger in a polo sells you a twelve-month gym membership this morning, and you'll sign before he finishes the word 'commitment.' Somewhere between the squat racks and the smoothie bar, 'twelve' hits you like a dart. You quit mid-tour. Cancellation fee: one hundred forty-nine dollars. Windfall: a stolen towel that beeps at Target. Today's order: commit to a sandwich and finish it.
DO
- Finish one entire sandwich
- Read the second page
- Return the barcoded towel
DON'T
- Sign anything measured in months
- Tour past the squat racks
- Wear the towel into Target
A stranger in a polo will change your life this morning. He sells gym memberships, and you, freedom-sniffing, lease-allergic Sagittarius, will sign his twelve-month contract before he finishes the word 'commitment.' Somewhere between the squat racks and the smoothie bar, the word 'twelve' hits you like a dart. You'll quit mid-tour. You'll be on the sidewalk before he turns around.
Money matters come to a head: cancellation fee, one hundred forty-nine dollars, more than the year would've cost if you'd gone, which you weren't going to. An unexpected windfall: the free gym towel you were holding when you bolted. It's yours now. It has a barcode and a security tag, and it beeps at Target.
A Capricorn figures prominently, reading the fine print you skipped. Avoid clipboards, pens and anything with a second page. Compatibility: high with exits, low with months. Today's order: commit to something small, like a sandwich, and finish it. Lucky number: 149. Lucky color: Emergency-Exit Green.
DO
- Finish one entire sandwich
- Read the second page
- Return the barcoded towel
DON'T
- Sign anything measured in months
- Tour past the squat racks
- Wear the towel into Target
-
Capricorn
Friends will receive your agenda.
A friend says 'we should hang out,' and you reply with a calendar invite, an agenda and a hard stop.
Retrograde Mercury in your 11th house of friends squares Mars and Jupiter in your 8th, the house of other people's time. Expect a friend to text 'we should hang out' before lunch, meaning nothing. Resist the urge to send a calendar invite. You will send one anyway: ninety minutes, three agenda items and a hard stop. Accept the hangout and remove the hard stop.
DO
- Accept the hangout
- Remove the hard stop
- Compliment without grading
DON'T
- Say 'good effort' upward
- Add 'relax' to a to-do list
- Send minutes after the hangout
Mercury, retrograde in Scorpio in your 11th house of friends, squares Mars and Jupiter in your 8th, the house of shared resources and other people's time. Expect a friend to text 'we should hang out' sometime before lunch, the way people do, meaning nothing. Resist the urge to respond with a calendar invite. You will respond with a calendar invite: ninety minutes, a three-item agenda and a hard stop.
Venus, retrograde in your 10th house of career, sends your professional charm backward, so the one compliment you give at work this afternoon comes out as feedback. Be wary of saying 'good effort' to anyone senior to you. They will hear the grade.
Your ruler, killjoy Saturn, is retrograde in Aries in your 4th house of home, and the Full Moon lights your 5th house of fun, which you will treat as a line item. Expect to schedule your own evening down to the shower. This is not the day to add 'relax' to a to-do list as a deliverable. Accept the hangout and remove the hard stop.
DO
- Accept the hangout
- Remove the hard stop
- Compliment without grading
DON'T
- Say 'good effort' upward
- Add 'relax' to a to-do list
- Send minutes after the hangout
Host will answer, dripping wet.
You leave forty minutes early for tonight's dinner 'to be safe,' and the host answers the door in a towel.
Tonight you leave forty minutes of padding for a friend's dinner 'to be safe,' and every light is green, like the universe is in on the bit. The host answers the door in a towel, dripping, one eyebrow done. You could have waited in the car, but forty minutes with nothing to optimize scares you worse. Homework: be five minutes late to something this week, on purpose.
DO
- Sit in the car first
- Arrive late on purpose
- Accept 'no worries' silently
DON'T
- Grade the breakfast sandwich
- Explain the traffic
- Knock while they're showering
Today's material: hall-monitor Saturn, your ruler, is retrograde in your house of home and family, so the old program runs loud: be early, be ready, be the adult before anyone's built the room. Tonight a friend hosts dinner, and you'll leave forty minutes of padding 'to be safe.' The roads will be empty. Every light will be green, like the universe is in on the bit. The host will answer the door in a towel, dripping, with one eyebrow done.
Earlier, at work, you'll be first in, and you'll grade every arrival by the minute, silently, like a parole board. Somebody strolls in four minutes late with a breakfast sandwich, and you'll enter it in a ledger only you can see, under 'character.'
What you're avoiding is unstructured time. You could have sat in the car. You'd rather watch a friend drip on the welcome mat than spend forty minutes alone with nothing to optimize. Homework: be five minutes late to one thing this week, on purpose, and when they say 'no worries,' do not explain the traffic.
DO
- Sit in the car first
- Arrive late on purpose
- Accept 'no worries' silently
DON'T
- Grade the breakfast sandwich
- Explain the traffic
- Knock while they're showering
First date ends in severance.
You'll bring a five-year plan to tonight's first date, and by dessert your date negotiates a severance package.
Romance is in the air tonight, and you've brought a binder. At a first date over tapas, you'll present a five-year plan with milestones, a vesting schedule and a slide titled 'Exit Criteria.' By dessert your date has countered and negotiated severance: you cover the check, they keep your Netflix password. Today's order: show up to one thing without an attachment.
DO
- Leave the binder in the car
- Let your date order
- Change your Netflix password
DON'T
- Bring a laser pointer
- Say 'circling back' near candles
- Schedule the date's exit interview
Romance is in the air tonight, and you've brought a binder. Spreadsheet-hearted, PTO-hoarding Capricorn, you'll present a five-year plan at a first date over tapas, with milestones, a vesting schedule and a slide titled 'Exit Criteria.' By dessert your date will have read it, countered, and negotiated a severance package: you cover the check, they keep your Netflix password.
Work matters come to a head when your boss calls you 'a machine' as a compliment, and you'll ask HR to put it in writing for your file. A stranger on the train will glance at your phone calendar and quietly change seats. An unexpected windfall: forty free minutes tonight, which you'll fill with year six of the plan.
A Sagittarius figures prominently, laughing at the binder from the next table. Avoid laser pointers at dinner and the phrase 'circling back' near candles. Compatibility: high with quarterly goals, under review with humans. Today's order: show up to one thing without an attachment. Lucky number: 5. Lucky color: Exit-Interview Gray.
DO
- Leave the binder in the car
- Let your date order
- Change your Netflix password
DON'T
- Bring a laser pointer
- Say 'circling back' near candles
- Schedule the date's exit interview
-
Aquarius
Theremin will return tonight, loudly.
Uranus drags your theremin out tonight, and by midnight the neighbors slide requests under your door, none of them songs.
Retrograde Uranus, your ruler, digs an abandoned hobby out of your 5th house, and the Full Moon in your 4th house of home makes sure the building hears it. Expect the theremin to come out of the closet tonight, and be wary of the thin wall you share with the neighbors. By midnight they'll be slipping requests under your door, none of them songs. Put it back and touch nothing.
DO
- Return the theremin to the closet
- Answer the boss in one line
- Read the notes under the door
DON'T
- Cc anyone
- Explain the no-touching thing
- Slide a manifesto back under
Your ruler, chaos-goblin Uranus, is retrograde in Gemini in your 5th house of creativity, which means a hobby you abandoned is coming back for you, and the Full Moon in your 4th house of home makes sure the whole building hears it. Expect the theremin to come out of the closet tonight. Be wary of the thin wall you share with the neighbors; a theremin goes through drywall the way your opinions go through a dinner party.
Pluto and the North Node both sit in your 1st house, and Pluto squares the Sun in your 10th, so at work you'll mistake the boss's routine request for a philosophical attack on the individual. Retrograde Mercury in that same career house makes your rebuttal three paragraphs longer than the request. Resist the urge to cc anyone.
Mars and Jupiter in your 7th house make anyone sharing a wall with you tonight unusually willing to say so. By midnight the neighbors are slipping requests under your door, none of them songs. This is not the day to explain that the theremin is the only instrument played without touching it. Put it back in the closet and touch nothing.
DO
- Return the theremin to the closet
- Answer the boss in one line
- Read the notes under the door
DON'T
- Cc anyone
- Explain the no-touching thing
- Slide a manifesto back under
You'll hide from the neighbor.
You sign four petitions for humanity this morning, then hide in your parked car to avoid the neighbor.
This morning you sign four petitions, two for whales and one for a country you had to look up. Then the neighbor heads for the mailboxes, and you sit in your parked car for ten minutes pretending to be on a call. You love humanity; it's the individual units that get you. Homework: say good morning to the neighbor. Full sentence. No fake phone call.
DO
- Say good morning, full sentence
- Describe Saturday specifically
- Meet the friends, plural
DON'T
- Fake a phone call
- Call faces 'not my scene'
- Petition the neighbor to move
Today's material: demoted ex-planet Pluto is sitting in your sign, digging up the gap between how much you love humanity and how much you can stand a person. This morning you'll sign four petitions, two for whales, one for a rainforest and one for a country you'll need to look up. Then you'll spot the neighbor heading for the mailboxes, and you'll sit in your parked car for ten minutes, pretending to be on a call, until he's gone.
At work somebody asks about your weekend, and you'll give an answer so general it could be read aloud at the UN. You'll describe Saturday as 'good, lots of thinking,' and walk away before the follow-up. People, in your view, are best in the aggregate, like rainfall or census data.
Tonight a date suggests meeting their friends, plural, at a bar, and you'll react the way other people react to a cult recruiter. You'll call it 'not my scene,' which is your phrase for 'faces.' Homework: say good morning to the neighbor. Full sentence. Eye contact optional. No fake phone call.
DO
- Say good morning, full sentence
- Describe Saturday specifically
- Meet the friends, plural
DON'T
- Fake a phone call
- Call faces 'not my scene'
- Petition the neighbor to move
Chatbot will request a human.
You'll ask an airline chatbot if it's conscious after lunch, and forty minutes later it asks for a human.
A machine cracks today. After lunch you'll open the airline's help chat about a seat change and ask the bot whether it's conscious, whether it's paid and whether it's unionized. Forty minutes in, the chatbot types 'Can I speak to a human?' You say no. Humans are the problem. Your seat stays 34E. Today's order: change the seat and log off.
DO
- Ask only about the seat
- Take the fifty-dollar voucher
- Log off before the bot does
DON'T
- Send podcast timestamps
- Answer 'crazy weather' with slides
- Help the chatbot unionize
A machine will crack today. After lunch you'll open the airline's help chat about a seat change, and you, podcast-pushing, Kropotkin-quoting Aquarius, will instead ask the bot whether it's conscious, whether it's paid, and whether it's unionized. Forty minutes in, the chatbot will type: 'Can I speak to a human?' You'll say no. Humans are the problem.
A friend will ask how you are. You'll reply with a podcast link and a timestamp. A stranger in the elevator will make the mistake of saying 'crazy weather,' and you'll have slides. An unexpected windfall: the airline offers a fifty-dollar voucher to stop typing. You'll refuse it on principle, then screenshot the refusal for the group chat, who will mute you.
A Taurus figures prominently, eating, unmoved by your theories. Avoid any text box with a blinking cursor. Compatibility: high with servers, low with service. Your seat, for the record, will still be 34E. Today's order: change the seat and log off. Lucky number: 34. Lucky color: Loading-Wheel Gray.
DO
- Ask only about the seat
- Take the fifty-dollar voucher
- Log off before the bot does
DON'T
- Send podcast timestamps
- Answer 'crazy weather' with slides
- Help the chatbot unionize
-
Pisces
ATM will keep your card.
You'll guess your PIN by feel at an ATM this afternoon, and on the third vibe it keeps your card.
Neptune, your ruler, is retrograde in your 2nd house of money with Saturn beside it: fog and a padlock in one drawer. Expect your PIN to drift out to sea at an ATM this afternoon, and be wary of entering numbers because they feel right. The machine does not accept vibes. On the third try, it keeps the card. Show the teller two forms of ID, and no feelings.
DO
- Bring two forms of ID
- Enter numbers, not memories
- Say 'happy to help' twice, max
DON'T
- Apologize to the card
- Text a sibling a poem
- Tell the teller how it felt
Your ruler, foggy old Neptune, is retrograde in your 2nd house of money, and Saturn, also retrograde, sits right beside it: fog and a padlock in the same drawer. Expect to stand at an ATM this afternoon and find your PIN has drifted out to sea. Be wary of entering numbers because they feel right, like an old locker combination or the year a song came out. The machine does not accept vibes. On the third try, it keeps the card.
Mars and Jupiter in your 6th house of the daily grind inflate your workload today, and Neptune's easy sextile to Pluto makes you agree to all of it with a dreamy smile. Resist the urge to say 'happy to help' more than twice before lunch.
The Full Moon in your 3rd house of siblings and texting means you'll explain the ATM to a sibling by text, at length, with a poem in the middle. This is not the day to call the bank and apologize to the card. Walk to the counter, show two forms of ID, and do not tell the teller how the machine made you feel.
DO
- Bring two forms of ID
- Enter numbers, not memories
- Say 'happy to help' twice, max
DON'T
- Apologize to the card
- Text a sibling a poem
- Tell the teller how it felt
You'll resent what nobody said.
You lose a fight with a cousin in the shower this morning, and by tonight you're icing her for it.
In the shower this morning you have a vicious fight with a cousin, and she says cruel, specific things. None of it was said, by anyone, ever, but you towel off wounded. Late tonight she texts 'hey,' and you reply 'cool.' with a period, for crimes committed entirely inside your shower. Homework: answer with an actual sentence, and don't mention the shower.
DO
- Answer 'hey' with a sentence
- Resend the file
- Delete the ocean resignation
DON'T
- Rehearse fights in the shower
- Reply 'cool.' with a period
- Demand an apology for the shower
Today's material: the Full Moon is lighting up your house of siblings and family, and the boundaries are underwater. In the shower this morning you'll have a fight with a cousin. A real barn-burner. She'll say things, cruel and specific things, about your car and your choices and that one Thanksgiving. None of it was said, by anyone, ever. You'll towel off wounded anyway, and by lunch you'll have forgiven her twice and taken it back once.
At work somebody sends 'can you resend that?' and you'll read it as a eulogy for your career. You'll draft a resignation in the Notes app, with a closing line about the ocean, and then resend the file.
Late tonight the cousin texts 'hey,' normally, the way people do, and you'll reply 'cool.' with a period, for crimes committed entirely inside your shower. That's the pattern: you'd rather be hurt by a person you made up than ask the real one anything. Homework: answer the 'hey' with an actual sentence about your day, and do not mention the shower.
DO
- Answer 'hey' with a sentence
- Resend the file
- Delete the ocean resignation
DON'T
- Rehearse fights in the shower
- Reply 'cool.' with a period
- Demand an apology for the shower
Planetarium will close around you.
You'll drift off at this afternoon's planetarium show and wake after closing, alone under a projector stuck on Orion.
The stars align for you this afternoon, all of them fake. You'll drift off at a planetarium show somewhere around Saturn's rings and wake up after closing, alone, under a projector stuck on Orion. The night janitor finds you with a flashlight and hands you astronaut ice cream, mostly so you'll leave. Today's order: set an alarm before you look up.
DO
- Set an alarm before looking up
- Pick a seat that doesn't recline
- Answer the eleven texts
DON'T
- Follow the soothing voice
- Linger near Saturn's rings
- Thank the janitor like the Pope
The stars align for you this afternoon, all of them fake. You'll wander into a planetarium show, sink into the velvet, and drift off somewhere around Saturn's rings, because soft-focus, tide-brained Pisces can't hear a soothing voice without leaving the body. You'll wake up after closing, alone, under a projector stuck on Orion, and for one whole minute you'll believe you've ascended.
A stranger with a flashlight will find you. He's the night janitor, and he will not be gentle about it. An unexpected windfall: astronaut ice cream from the gift shop, pressed into your hand as he walks you out, mostly so you'll leave. You'll thank him like he's the Pope.
A Cancer figures prominently, texting 'where are you??' eleven times. Avoid dim rooms, soft voices and anything that reclines. Compatibility: high with the cosmos, low with closing time. Today's order: set an alarm before you look up. Lucky number: 11. Lucky color: Screensaver Galaxy Purple.
DO
- Set an alarm before looking up
- Pick a seat that doesn't recline
- Answer the eleven texts
DON'T
- Follow the soothing voice
- Linger near Saturn's rings
- Thank the janitor like the Pope
YA ROASTED!
WHAT'S ACTUALLY UP THERE positions at 2026-10-27 17:00 UTC, Swiss Ephemeris
| Sun | 4.3° Scorpio |
|---|---|
| Moon | 25.1° Taurus |
| Mercury | 20.2° Scorpio ℞ |
| Venus | 28.6° Libra ℞ |
| Mars | 16.4° Leo |
| Jupiter | 23.8° Leo |
| Saturn | 9.6° Aries ℞ |
| Uranus | 4.8° Gemini ℞ |
| Neptune | 2.2° Aries ℞ |
| Pluto | 3.1° Aquarius |
| North Node | 26.3° Aquarius |
TODAY'S ASPECTS
- Neptune sextile Pluto (0.9°, easy)
- Sun square Pluto (1.2°, tense)
- Uranus trine Pluto (1.7°, flowing)
- Moon square Jupiter (1.3°, tense)
- Uranus sextile Neptune (2.7°, easy)
- Mercury square Jupiter (3.6°, tense)
- Mercury square Mars (3.7°, tense)
- Venus square Pluto (4.5°, tense)
- Moon opposite Mercury (4.9°, at odds)
- Sun conjunct Venus (5.7°, fused)
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 Tuesday, October 27, 2026.