<span class="sdata" title="30"></span> <span class="sdata" title="12, 2017"></span>

Why 2018 Is New Year AF Till 2020

By | <span class="sdata2" title="2017-12-30T16:29:30+00:00"></span> |Capricorn, Mother Cosmosis, Motivation, My Apartment, Resolution, Star Sign Shit, Uncategorized|0 Comments


We reach that point in the year when endings become new beginnings, farewells become greetings, an’ most evrywan gets titsed offa their assholeflaps on alcohol an’ Noo Year rezzo frickin’ lootions.

As an astrologer person, I see both smart an’ stoopid in this unique moment.

The whole resolootion deal is smart because

1) Change is inevitable, so why not make an effort to command it?

2) Sumtimes you gotta tidy upya life — especially frickin’ Geminis.

3) When evrywan is pullin’ on sumthin’ together it makes stickin’ with the willpower an’ followthru seem so much easier, even though it actschwlly ain’t — like weary marathon runners encouraged by their peers to go the distance or world-beatin’ burger eatin’ champs motivated by the cameras to swallow quarterpounder #57 an’ rupture evrythin’ between their oesophagi an’ their buttholes.

The stoopid part is even easier to nail — an’ that is where Mother Cosmosis comes in (quite literally, as it turned out).

Oh Yippee! — Are You Going To Tell Us A Story, O Princess?

tbh I was merely gonna relate a poignant anecdote, but ifya are so desperate for entertainment, mebbe I will embellish, add flourish — an’ plain ol’ lie

Dunno what YOU were doin’ the weekend before Christmas, but I was crashed out in my apartment nursin’ nostrils streamin’ like a cumshot compilation.

My weary head ached, my stomach gurgled, an’ my limbs were so darn limp even an Ultraspazz Flopout Yoga routine was beyond me.

Trooly, I feared The Reaper.

So I am leanin’ against my refrigerator, mixin’up a cocktaila miscellaneous flooids an’ meds, when a familiar breach in the Time-Space-WTF Continuum opens up beside my lifesize cardboard Benedict Cumberbatch erecto-display … an’ celestial vapors waft into view.

“Got any stronger meds than Cerebellufen?” I say as Mother Cosmosis steps outta the Void. “My hippocampus is about to go frickin’ viral.”

M.C. flashes me her best FFS Balestra, why do you always insist on ruining my trademark spectacular entrances with lame excuses for existence that subvert the meaningful dialog I had planned … and ultimately beach us both in the worst kind of limbo where only exaggerated nightmare date stories offer any kind of succor? smirk — an’ slaps me hard in the back. “Just cough it all up and you’ll be fine, darling.”

Gotta admit, she sure dislodged sumthin’ there — but I was still walkin’ all wonky right up till Christmas.

“We need to discuss the hope and aspiration festival that is New Year,” she says, jammin’ a bowl under my achin’ jaw an’ pummelin’ on my back even harder. “People are so desperate for practical lifehacks at this time of year that even diehard Christian evangelists are prepared to look in on their horoscopes for clues to guide them forward through the unrelenting — and frankly, Godless — darkness. It’s a great time for bitch-crazy astrogals like ourselves to pull in the bucks for a Summer vacation someplace swanky.”

I cough up a chipotle & vodka whirlpool. “So what’s our theme? Las’ year I ran with Mortal Gloom as a Means For Necessary Soulful Transformation — mainly cos 2016 was such a fucker.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” says M.C. with a frown. “Next time I suggest The Self-Perpetuating Bunnyscape of Infinite Happiness as New Year inspiration, you run with it, okay? That virgin blog post of yours probably put millions off astrology for life.”

“Aw, c’mon — you know I’m at my best when I play the plucky Sagittarian rescuin’ hope from the jawsa all-consoomin’ Oblivion.”

“Hey, that’s your delusional self-image and not mine, sister. But I take the point about Oblivion, if only because it’s the one pitch offers scope for a month in the Bahamas instead of merely a night stop in Ontario — minus breakfast.”

“So what’s our angle for 2018? Looks good to Moi right now.”

M.C. perches deftly on the edgea my sofa. “I think so too. New Year AF. 2017 began its brief life choked by stifling backstory — like the second book in a truly lousy trilogy the author will inevitably lose all will to complete. Hope was in short supply, a dark narrative lacking rhyme and reason seemed set to write itself into the history books against many people’s wishes, and my pussy hat unravelled while I was heading over to the New York Women’s March from Pluto.”

“But I guess alla the soulful people done good in the end, right? Battled through difficult times — jus’ like how the bleak Midwinter Solstice warms sure an’ slow into Spring’s rebirth?”


“So I can lay on the sugar for my Noo Year blaaahg post this year? Drizzle honey onto the tonguesa the deservedly emboldened?

M.C. nods. “Till it oozes deep down into their bellies or overflows onto their naked breasts.”

“In fuckin’ January?

“Point taken.”

That’s A Story? The Universe’s Prime Celestial Mover Stops By Your Apartment … And You Throw Up? Where’s The Romance In That Scenario?

The Romance is exactly as I pitched it, Sweetie.

An’ this is where we get to the deliciously stoopid deal ‘bout Noo Year.

Thing is, the cyclic astro narrative spins evry year from Aries to Pisces don’t make with the catalytic sparky till the Spring Equinox.

That is the troo kickstart on renewal an’ change an’ shit.

May I recommendya pull onya feels here an’ reflect on that self-evident truth for a sec?

Whicha the followin’ scenarios fillsya heart mostest fulla leapsy boundsy gambollin’ spunky & plucky?

1) It is the Bleak Midwinter. Your butt cheeks been frozen offya shiverin’ body, evry tree been strippeda life, feeble-lookin’ birds hop stutteringly across the barren landscape with nuthin’ but hunger an’ sorrow in their eyes, an’ only a single imaginary fat guy is on hand to bleedya bank account dry an’ fillya so fulla cinnamon-flavored megacarbs you gonna be either constipated solid for a week or squirtin’ liquid figgy puddin’ outta your ass till fuckin’ Valentines.

2) Spring Fever gripsya evry wakin’ molecule an’ you feel so dirty screamin’ horny you wanna wrapya legs round anythin’ that moves an’ buck hard tillya titties squeal for mercy.

Tellya, if’n Noo Year Resolootion came bundled as a Gift Voucher steada an immutable obligation, I figure most evrywan would save it up till the Spring when the planet got way more to offer by waya transformational optimism than GIVE UP SMOKING or LOSE TWO STONE AND LEARN PORTUGUESE.

What the fuck is alla that schwango about anyways?

Surely lame goals an’ prohibitions masqueradin’ as desirable bounties despoil optimism’s iridescent sheen like guano smeared on a Homecomin’ Queen’s eyeballs?

There’s No Arguing With That, I Suppose. So Where Do We Go From Here?

We understand implicitly that like all things astrological, fixed points in time are merely flux-propelled instances conjoined in a wider narrative maxin’ out on eternal sweetness.

Far as Noo Year is concerned, this means we gotta ask how leapsy boundsy Arian overdrive gonna play out when Spring blossoms if’n we ain’t first lived through the las’ three chaptersa the Celestial workbook — specifically the Capricorn section drops like a cannonball evry Trad Reaper Season.

For a different perspective, ask what good any kinda Capricorn resolve gonna be worth when Arian action stations beckon if’n they ain’t first been refined through Winter by Aquarian Perky an’ wider Piscean Dreamostuffs.

Tellya, if’n resolootion an’ change gonna mean anythin’, fixin’ & fluxin’ gotta be amenable to Time’s dynamic ebb an’ flow — or our hearts be naught but stone.

Way I see it, opportoonities for resolootion an’ renewal spring outta evry single incendiary interplanetary dancegasm moment — primarily when the Sun switches sign, but also when other celestial shufflin’around is gowin’ down, like mebbe a sextile shimmy twixt Moon an’ Mercury.

If we wanted, we could all decide to muster annually round resolve an’ change inspired by (for example) Libran values.

Our #resolution tweets would drop in Autumn ‘steada Winter, but they would still pull on the same essential features figure in December/January … like To Do lists, willpower, habit, aspirations an’ goals (only with Libra in the drivin’ seat, recitin’ power mantras would demand pan pipe accompaniment or yodellin’ talents).

Resolve an’ change are equally supermutable an’ eternal, an’ it is only cos we muster in our droves round the Capricornian incarnation that our Noo Year desires an’ redirections pack the particular vibe they do.

Which Is What, O Princess? What Is Specifically Capricornian About The Resolutions We Make — en Masse — For New Year Compared To Commitments To Change We Make (So Often On Our Lonesome) Most Other Times?

Tellya, Capricorn resolootions are such CUNTS.

They take more stamina to make an’ keep, they are seriously life-changin’, an’ they so wanna breakya down before they makeya up big an’ strong an’ successful.

That is what makes ‘em so unapologetically hardcore.

It is like resta the year, you kinda bumble along on a self-regulatin’ morphsy autopilot — cosyin’ up to the Arian resolootion bunny iconography in Spring an’ shiverin’ from Scorpio’s Halloweensy faux rictus demands in Autumn — before


goddamn goat-faced REAPER drops onya at deada night an’ whuppies your head clean off with a scythe bigger’n a frickin’ bomber plane wing,

an’ screams …

“You want your life to count for something instead of being trampled underfoot by imbecile hordes, then here is how you must work your determined tits off, day after day, week after week, month after month, until the only flavor your tongue recognises is the sweet taste of total triumph!”

Way I see it, we figure on Noo Year as a time for diligent resolootion fever ‘steada any other particular time not cos there is nuthin’ trooly NEWER gowin’ down December/January than the schwango cracks off resta the year but bcs Capricorn smarts direct us to look in on the hardcore essentials we mebbe shy away from whenever less benevolently oppressive Zodiac energies’re runnin’ the show.

Capricorn says …

Hard reset. No escape. No easy ride.

saturn in capricorn pulled strings on fate back in 1991

Best parta the deal?

The unpalatable beautya 2018’s Capricornian resolootion swing is how it throws in a full 3 yearsa unrelentin’ transformational grindo to GUARANTEE we pick ourselves up an’ smarten our fuckin’ acts, big time.

(See — this is what I meant when I told Mother Cosmosis I was gonna lay on the sugar.)

Coolest resolvin’ revolver we got rn is Saturn spinnin’ his almighty frickin’ wheelhouse in Capricorn till 2020 — so any changes you powerin’ up now gonna play for keeps.

2018 is “New Year AF” till 2020 precisely cos hardcore transformation opportoonities be thunderin’ the hell outta the Cosmos an’ not jus’ the calendar.

It is not down to Moi to decide forya what changes to make or stick with, still less to proclaim from on Sagittarian high that unlessya take full advantagea this once-in-a-generation opportoonity for self-mastery as manifested in unashamedly practical resolootion an’ transformationstuffs you are a real fuckin’ dumb-as-shit slacker deserves the Universe to gobbleya up — I merely wanna point out how significant is this momentary epoch beyond

hey, yesterday it was like 2017 … and now it is like 2018! Ain’t that just the craziest thing you ever heard? Maybe we should let off some fireworks to celebrate … or go get a pizza or something.

Then What Are You Saying? What Does “New Year AF” Even Mean?

Think back to August 18th. Or April 29th. Or October 7th. Or whenevah.

You got no frickin’ Noo Year gowin’ down anya these times, no fanciful pan-globe kiss-up gonna carry evrywan along on a transformation ticket.

Prolly these were nuthinny kindsa days, I dunno.

You wake up, go work or class, hang out with friends, go bed.

Less’n you keep a journal or it wasya birthday or aliens abductedya pets, prolly these dates plucked outta the air at random by Moi mean fuck all other than … they happened.

But if astrology means anythin’ at all, its power lies forever in how it is LIVE — same as YOUR LIFE — an’ when eacha these days was the eternal present moment, no way were they about fuck all!

Down the ages, philosophers been thinkin’ a shitload ‘bout time.

Truth is, they been at it so long prolly they shoulda figured the fucker out by now, I dunno.

But one thing ‘bout time seems forever to be true is how it is a kinda container for supermomentary mortal feelin’.

Eacha those days I mentioned framed real specific feelings you had — a POV an’ precursor to action can never seep out beyond the moment gave it suck.

You got memories now, mebbe had expectations way back, but only on those days didya trooly feel an’ understand what they were as they played out beforeya eyes.

Good or bad, fulla portent or inconsequential, hamster abduction nightmare or no, your transformation through time on these days (an’ howya feelings ‘bout alla that bucked the odds on transformation potential for the fyooture) was prolly not so much different from the opportoonity available when Trad Noo Year drops

You either touch base with dancea your mojo & life circumstance an’ howya wanna take yourself forward … orya do not.

Stoopid says … pickin’ on a moment in time plucked from an arbitrarily imposed calendar an’ expectin’ miracles to happen jus’ cos evry fucker else is playin’ along is a surefire way to SUCCESS NIRVANA! (Leastaways, till mebbe January 21st, when evrythin’ falls apart.)

Smart says … today is like evry other day … August 18th to April 29th to October 7th to whenevah. It is no more nor no less special than any other day beyond it is my own precious time to be alive an’ act/reflect on how the gifts I bring to the table might benefit myself an’ others — an’ our poor, beleaguered planet.

If’n you real committed ‘bout your life an’ potential, if’n you ain’t here to jus’ idle along an’ fuck around like fodder in sumone else’s stoopid schemes, this kinda daily diligence regardin’ howya wanna be prolly gonna takeya sumplace you want.

Real deal you got right now depends on groundin’ out more on mebbe what don’t feel so snug an’ comfy — askin’ yourself whatchya prepared to do to figure on buildin’ sum real cool shit for yourself come 2020 gonna max out on hardcore benefits if only opportoonity came rollin’ along.

Bcs 2018 is Noo Year AF — an’ Capricornian opportoonity gonna roll hard an’ regular till 2020 like a boulder primed to flatten all opposition.

That clear?

Title Image c/o cocoparisienne @ Pixabay

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<span class="sdata" title="3"></span> <span class="sdata" title="07, 2017"></span>

Alla Your Moon Sign Horoscopes Are Belong To Bats

By | <span class="sdata2" title="2017-07-03T13:20:49+00:00"></span> |Moon Signs, Mother Cosmosis, My Apartment, Savin' The Cosmos|0 Comments


‘Fraid so.

Li’l fuckers crept into my apartment overnight an’ made with the whole BIG TIME THEFT deal — an’ now lunar astrology is toast!

Thing is, when I first graduated from Astrology School, Mother Cosmosis took me to one side an’ warned me this might happen one day.

“Moon sign horoscopes are truly precious auguries,” she said, “and when you are composing them, your initial drafts must always be locked away securely from prying eyes.”

I laughed. “So the trick I pull shovin’ my passport under my panties won’t wash?”

“Indeed not. It’s so important that you guard your moon sign horoscopes with your life lest villains creep in at dead of night and steal them — or worse still, amend them with malign intent, thereby placing the Cosmos and all its inhabitants in terrible danger.”

So, hey — guess which total frickin’ ditz left her last batcha scopes under her bed las’ night?

You Lost The Moon Sign Horoscopes? You Asshole!

I got no excuse, but it has been a busy week for Moi, so lemme try explainin’— Cosmos gonna come crashin’ down on evryone next week, I figureya prolly deserve to know why.

Thing is, I got a call from my agent las’ Monday sayin’ how Portable Restroom Operator Magazine needed a celebrity astrologer for their monthly horoscope column.

“It would be a great opportunity for you,” said Sal (cos that is my agent’s name). “Only problem is they never heard of you.”

“That is the deal with true celebrity,” I replied. “Thinka alla those droids an’ weirdo aliens in Star Wars — the instantly recognizable ones like Jabba the Hutt, Yoda an’ C3P0. Now ask yourself who the fuck are those guys? Tellya, true celebrity demands mystique.”

“Quit being a smartass. You know exactly what I mean — and I figure you could use the money right now. Don’t ask me why, but the portable restroom people want to start with moon signs. Deadline is next Tuesday. Can you fix that?”

“Sure,” I said — then totally forgot about shit till las’ night, mostly cos I was busy scryin’ the heavens for my own regular monthly horoscopes … an’ scrapin this Jamie Oliver monkfish curry offa my kitchen wall after the fucker exploded.

Las’ night was the first chance I got to write stuff out — an’ by 2am my tequila fuel had kinda knocked me out, an’ alla my half-written portable restroom inspired moon sign horoscopes musta slipped offa the bed.

Next thing I know, it is 9am an’ my entire apartment is splattered with frickin’ guano — an’ alla my scopes have vanished.

Surely You Had A Moon Sign Horoscopes Emergency Backup Plan?

Not exactly.

I tried summonin’ Mother Cosmosis on my crystal ball, but I got a problem with the touchscreen right now.

Jus’ won’t frickin’ swipe.

That left either Google or the dog-eared Medieval Miscellany Encyclopaedia I had since I was 6.

Natchrly, it was no contest…

Accordin’ to my encyclopaedia, witches in the Yookay were regularly stalked by bats lookin’ for arcane secrets.

Turns out the reason Henry VIII shut down alla the monasteries had nuthin’ to do with religion an’ everythin’ to do with destroyin’ prime bat territory.

Trash the bats’ most sought-after rafters an’ you got fewer winged critters flyin’ around stealin’ secrets offa witches an’ subsequently wreakin’ mayhem on hamlets an’ castles.

Anyways, point is, the bats ain’t quit on the deal, even though it is 2017 an’ mosta the world’s superexotic esoterica is freely available on the dark web an’ alla the witches have moved on to girl bands an’ porno.

Jus’ my luck, I guess, but las’ night those darn bats came lookin’ for Moi.

An’ now evry las’ membera the hooman race — an’ evry livin’ creature in the Cosmos — is threatened with imminent extinction.

Tellya, those bats amend what I wrote out, an’ their misappropriationa celestial forces an’ energies gonna tear reality apart.

Thankfully there is a solution!

But I am gonna need sum help, K?

Princess Balestra’s Moon Sign Astrology Bat Emergency Solution

If we can assemble 12 select bats — one for each signa the Zodiac — an’ bind ‘em (not with magic or anythin’ cos that is jus’ weird, I was thinkin’ morea usin’ duct tape) then we can reverse anythin’ calamitous they done.

So we need an Aries bat, a Taurus bat — an’ so on, alla the way through to Pisces.

But cos this whole frickin’ disaster centers on moon sign horoscopes, we are lookin’ at moon signs ‘steada Sun signs for these guys,

Y’all gonna help out, you gotta knowya bats — an’ also your astrology.

So here is my handy guide for spottin’ the fuckers, moon sign by moon sign.

Your mission is a simple one.

Get out there an’ round ‘em up, peoples.

Dig out a net an’ go huntin!

Alert evryoneya know.

Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Facebook.

Or mebbe even jus’ go visit ‘em in the actual frickin’ flesh for once.

Take photos an’ capture spirityool batty essences.

Then sendya pix to Moi via my contact portal here.

I’ll fix evrythin’ from there, nail this emergency real good.

Right now, here’s what to look for…

Bat Identification By Moon Sign — Your Definitive Guide

Aries — Feisty flapper. Flies into windows. Rarely seen in colonies (that is the bat word for herd or bunch btw). Difficult to tame. Noisy. Will chase motorcycles down the freeway an’ play Russian roulette wingin’ between the wheels. Loves bitin’ shit an’ drawin’ blood.

Taurus — So frickin’ lame it rarely flies an’ cannot be assed to hang upside down. Sleeps on the floor in a heap. Compulsive masturbator. Real soft fur. Reacts abominably when bombarded by flash photography. Can consoom twice its own body weight in candy.

Gemini — Flits so erratically no mathematical formula can define its flight path. Zero sonar capability cos it always got headphones on. Loves shittin’ on people an’ hidin’. Occasionally advertizes lingerie on its wings. Real twitchy. Boss-eyed specimens common.

Cancer — Teaches its young aikido an’ other passive self-defense strategies. Flies sideways. Rolls itself into a ball for protection if attacked. Unusual rangea facial expressions for a flyin’ rodent-beest. Prefers its worms heated up. Confirmed wet dreamer.

Leo — This is the bat lands inya hair. Understands the cinematic powera silhouettes. Mastera the surprise entrance. Larger specimens can suck up spaghetti through their nostrils. Not especially covert for a nocturnal creature. Dangerous if cornered.

Virgo — Statistically more likely to be tagged by environmental scientists — typically in Latin. Always flies straight, but hangs upside down at a jaunty angle jus’ to be different. Licks fur constantly. Spooks cats for experimental purposes. Can count to 1.

Libra — 100% unscary. Regular contributor to Hollywood movies cos it adores make-up an’ costooms. Wide wingspan for its species. Highly sensitive sonar. Will never eat a baby frog. Sleeps with both eyes open. Unusually exotic arterial patterns on wings. Never farts.

Scorpio — Milks the vampire myth for strategic effect. Terrifies insects with sophisticated extortion rackets. Limited telepathy. Real leathery wings. Stands in for ravens at funerals if there are egg sandwiches an’ cocktail sausages. Fully understands its Omen Potential.

Sagittarius — Often seen ridin’ weasels. Never seen inside a bat box. Fountainous pisser. Shows up anyplace — desert, tundra, fuckin’ Moon. Wings often look glued on for a joke. Sumtimes hangs out with birds. Frequently electrocuted by accident. Certified hazard.

Capricorn — Basic nest-buildin’ talents. Kinda ugly lookin’. Hates hooman contact. Prefers to hang out in taller buildings. Flies long distances to follow Libra bats so it can gobble baby frogs. Unusually amorous when it finds a mate — which is typically never.

Aquarius — Believes itself to be a fruitbat, whatever. Folds wings into Origami dragons when nowan is lookin’. Assymmetric claws. Long hair common. Crash lands in soup or beer on a whim. Fucks hairbrushes. Has a thing for toothpaste. Fears spiders.

Pisces — Loves gettin’ lost in the fog. Would prolly fly into a warship’s path to save a dolphin. Attracted to syrup. More curvaceous than scrawny. Mimics cellphone tones at will. Above average radioactivity levels. Loves lickin’ sleepin’ babies.

Let’s Save The Cosmos!

So thereya have it — my best shot at a plan for savin’ the Cosmos.

Nets at the ready, evryone!

An’ be sureta keep the worldwide astrology community up to speed with any sightings by usin’ the #balestrabats hashtag on Twitter & elsewhere like it was sum incantation gonna flesh outya dick or boobies all ultra delicious (or, ifya already got neat lookin’ or meaty tinglydanglies, manifest $500 in online gamin’ vouchers or coupons to blast on seductive undergarments).

Meantime, you want more Zodiac-themed blog posts, why not go check out tombstones an’ bras?

If we are all still here by next weekend, mebbe make time also for FUCK OFF — my most inspirational an’ motivational blog post evah.

Gonna go dig out a matchin’ pith helmet & telescope set offa Ebay.

Let the moon sign bat hunt commence!

Title Image c/o Alexas Fotos @Pixabay.

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<span class="sdata" title="19"></span> <span class="sdata" title="06, 2017"></span>

Saturn Dating Tips

By | <span class="sdata2" title="2017-06-15T10:24:25+00:00"></span> |Fate, Love, My Apartment, Relationships|0 Comments


Tellya, Saturn gotta be the loneliest planetary heart.

Cosmos is awash with celestial meetups, good an’ bad, an’ though any kinda opposition involvin’ Plooto gotta feature high stakes pooper power, prolly the worst thing can happen to any planet seekin’ a romantic encounter is to find themselves conjunct frickin’ Saturn!

To hell with love at first sight or Tinder’s random excitement overload — Saturn pops the question early, fixes a liaison makesya wanna flee, then pitches a schedule so suffocatin’ it squeezes alla the O outta fellatio.

Tellya, Mercury to Plooto, those other planets gotta need sum serious Saturn dating tips if’n they gonna survive!

Saturn Dating Tips! Ha! This Is Just An Analogy, Right?

No way!

I am bein’ fuckin’ serious here!

Yanno how it goes urself with the ol’ lonesum — when allya can do is be shufflin’ through cloudy days kickin’ a can along the gutter an’ feelin’ nothin’ but implosive sorrow?

While all aroundya people less ugly an’ talentless an’ givin’ than yourself bag Mr or Miss Utterly Divine & Spiritually Transformational (mebbe even Loaded)?

Imagine havin’ to endure that relentless fate as a barren rock spinnin’ in the void.

*quits typin’ to shed sum tears. ‘specially for Venus cos loneliness is especially cruel to her. *sniff* aw c’mon, quit bawlin’ … composeya self gal… *sniff* tellya, this is worse’n Disney…*

O, Sweet! Is there Anything I Can Do? I Hate To See People Suffer.

Gonna be OK.


But do ya see the problem now?

Mercury, Venus, Mars, Joopiter, Neptoon, Uranus an’ Plooto —all spinnin’ lonesum for amour, all desperate for love’s embrace, all primed to kiss one another soft…


The horror show ring-spinner gonna throw a downer on romance!

Anus-themed breath! Zits all over! Garbage sneakers! Talks shit! Piss stains! Grimy teeth! Weevils alive in ears, nose … dick an’ jyna!

To hell with the Saturn dating tips!





I hear his leaden footfalls echoin’ like collidin’ tombs from the lobby!

Jesus! Hold Tight — Gonna Ring 911

Yeah, an’ call in the fuckin’ military whileya are at it.

They know my apartment of old.

What’s Going On? Sounds Bad!

It’s Saturn!

An’ he is desperate for a date!

Complete with throat-scrapin’ Frenchies!


OMG! Is This True?

Please Say This Ain’t Happening!

Evryone — get to the fire escape!


Elevator is on its way up now — and that can only mean one thing!

Which … Which Is … ?

OMC, Don’t Say It’s True!

Is It Really … Him?

The Scourge Of The Solar System? Crushing Despair Incarnate? The Arch-grinder Of Soul, Enterprise … and Hope?

Spurned By The Planets And Now Prowling The Globe Looking For Love Among Hapless Mortals Such As We?

‘Fraid so.

Worst thing about it is I got an augury jus’ this mornin’ sayin’ he is feelin’ especially romantic reckless an’ HIGHLY LIKELY to charge in here wearin’ only a brown corduroy mankini!

Impeccably ironed!






Title Image c/o Skeeze @ Pixabay

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<span class="sdata" title="15"></span> <span class="sdata" title="05, 2017"></span>

Astrology Compatibility Apps Gonna Fuck On Your Brain!

By | <span class="sdata2" title="2017-11-25T21:13:28+00:00"></span> |Astrolodjinni, Mother Cosmosis, My Apartment, Relationships|0 Comments


So, hey — Mother Cosmosis stopped by my place again at the weekend.

It is always a surprise to Moi (despite my uncannilly accurate astrologer’s  predicto prowess), but there was sumthin’ ‘bout the way her vapors coalesced into view atop my sofa that got me wondrin’ if’n I’d maxed out on MORTAL KLUTZYBOOBSIE.

* Like — was it wise to offer 1920s exercise advice to today’s Capricornian thrusters in their May horoscope?

* Or — was callin’ my recent Stars as Epitaphs blog post a ‘Handy Death Astrology Calculator’ merely hyperbole segued with hoobris?

* Or even — was it stoopid to confront the couple upstairs an’ demand they fuck quieter cos I was tryin’ to meditate on the annual blow hot / blow cold cyclea Uranus?

“What’s the gripe?” I said, as Mother C’s rapidly manifestin’ curves bundled my anxieties to one side.

“We have to discuss the Astrology Compatibility App Conundrum! En pointe astrology counsel delivered as a seer-free 99c Android or Apple add-on! Trust me, Princess — the Cosmos and its eternal synchronized dance routine is in danger! And our very existence as horoscope delivery experts is under threat!”

The Astrology Compatibility App Conundrum — A User’s Guide

Turns out the internets have not always existed.

This whacko truth kinda crept up on me while I was ODin’ on movies las’ month.

Recent films got plentya scenes packin’ alla the latest tech — phones, tabs, laptops — but not evry frickin’ scene got reference to the internets.

Superheroes smackin’ one another, lovers gettin’ flusho in the sack, hyperpixelified bunnies hoppin’ their way inta contemporary childhood’s future moral locker — they all got plentya on-screen moments packed fulla lazer-eyed snogsy CGI devoida internets references.

An’ yet, you kinda know alla that 21st Century webular superfunky is hummin’ away in the background, waitin’ to bust out.

Go back in time awhile, seems entire movies’re based on this internets-free pause.

Only it ain’t so.

It is actschly a total internets vacuum cos the internets ain’t there.

Cos ifya were Tom Hanks sneakin’ up on the Nazis in a Virgotastically orchestrated kinda WWII swoop, pants drenched with danger an’ excitement — surely you would selfie the shit outta the show?

“Huddle together, guys. Shame we ain’t got no U-boat looming in the background to make this nightmare panorama look extra dramatic.”

It’s A Fucker!

Tellya, I was a shamed in that instant.

Princessa insights I presoom myself to be, I kinda realised how lame I was.

Thing is, for eons stretchin’ back almost to the dawna time, astrology stuffs have been ladled from the ether by real live astrologer persons.

So … uhm … mebbe it is 1272 an’ you are in the YOOKAY.

I dunno, ridin’ a horse or sumthin’ stoopid.

An’ by the roadsideya spot a weird lookin’ tent.

Wind blows the sigil-mottled fabric open to reveal an even weirder lookin’ guy — an’ you are compelled to dismount an’ go investigate.

“Heya, weird guy,” you say.  “What is gowin’ down in your curious tent?”

Guy strokes his beard and throws you a look. “Actually, I’m a lady. But it is in the nature of the astrology business for its practitioners to sport the mantle of witches — so I slew a wild boar and stuck its wiry hide to my face.”

Astrology?  That a new drive-thru franchise?”

Resta the conversation is confidential, cos it’s at this point that all real live astrologer persons make with the secret astrology chant an’ kinda lure their prospects beyond idle curiosity to the Surefire Horoscope Secret Package retailin’ at JUST $whatevah (though, acourse, back in 1272 evrythin’ was in groats or sickly nephews).

Central problemya got with the Astrology Compatibility App Conundrum is how it factors the real live astrologer person the fuck outta the stargazy equation.

Guy on the horse got the app, he got no need to check out the sigil-mottled tent — or cough up the moolah gonna keep the real live astrologer person in frickin’ cat food.

Misses out on the $350 Suckywucky Bonus also…

How Can We Combat This Astrology Compatibility App Nightmare, O Princess?

All Of Us — Working Together As An Astro-defending Team, Kinda Like The Avengers?

So, yeah — Mother Cosmosis jus’ came out an’ said it.

“The more these wretched astrology compatibility apps proliferate, the fewer real live astrologers there will be. I fear the future may be one where convenience muscles out genuine prescience. It isn’t just retail and factory workers who should recoil in horror at the advance of robots and AI. It is you and I.”

She looked kinda shaken. I fixed her a cocktail an’ flopped down before her feet in my best Lotus, smilin’ like a real drippo. “An’ you want my advice from an internets perspective? That it?”

Her nod told me evrythin’. Ha! Too much frickin’ tequila.

“Thing is,” I said, pullin’ out sum stoopid scifi book I been readin’, “if history demonstrates anythin’ it is how flesh an’ blood people gonna prevail always. Ain’t that the deal with the whole Taurus vibe? Material substance movin’ mountains, kinda thing?”

Mother C looked pensive. “It’s true that hipsters have rediscovered vinyl along with potentially erotic facial texture, I suppose. And I’m heartened to see the return of printed books to the planet’s coffee shops and trains. Are you suggesting the lure of these evil apps is likely to be short-lived?”

“Two things,” I said, helpin’ her out with her drink. “First, you gotta wonder what happens if alla this don’t stop. Losers in this scifi book I read don’t figure no inner thoughts. Evrythin’ they perceive is voiced aloud, kinda the ultimate share.”

“And do they like this?”

“They do not. You should read it.”

Mother C catches the book. Time for a refill.

“Those poor suckers got no secrets,” I said, pullin’ out sum bigger glasses — an’ another bottle. “An’ when the science genius guy fitted their cranial whatevers with ThoughtShare, he figured alla the bad stuff we got would be flushed out an’ alla our finest virtues kinda grown an’ finessed. Only evryone jus’ regressed into a permanent statea STFU. Mankind spawned its own zombie apocalypse.”

Mother C eyed her worm. “What does this have to do with the astrology apps? Are you suggesting they will have a similarly destructive effect on peoplekind?”

“Opposite. I guess people’re havin’ fun right now mixin’ an’ matchin’ love, lust an’ blendyjuicy, starsign tango by starsign tango on sum stoopid app — but nuthin’ ever gonna beat sittin’ in a real live tent askin’ ‘bout sum real live potential fuckfest with sum real live sex bomb in the presecncea sum real live astrologer person — especially if said astrologer person is hot af an’ leavesya with enough cash inya pocket for a decent burger.”

“Do you still have your tent? If I remember correctly, just shortly after I anointed you in the Pool of Celestial Wisdom Unbound, you suggested you’d fly out to Egypt and sell it in exchange for what you coyly termed funtime leatherwear.”

That made me snigger sum!

“Turns out the smarter deal was hirin’ it out at weekends. I got kids’ parties, teen adventure sleepovers, live-in seniors’ secret biscuit eatin’ hideaways. Jus’ gotta warn people not to pull on … yanno …the sash opens up the spirit world & possibly summons Satan.”

Astrology Compatibility Apps — Your Killer Defense Strategy

Solution we came up with was the App 2 Braino Virus.

Here’s how it works…

You pull outya tab.

You check in on CyberScoper.

Robot astrology algorithms match your starsign with nearby hot singles.

Evil death rays leap the fuck outta your tab an’ infectya brain with a killer frickin’ virus.


You guys cool to spread this benevolent fake nooz around sum?

To allaya friends, besties, fam, pets — whatever?

Cos I figure by doin’ so, you gonna be savin’ astrology, savin’ the planet, an’ savin’ lives — startin’ with li’l ol Moi.

Here’s sum linesya can mebbe use next time anyone whips out their tab for a consultation with the Evil Augury Squad…

* Hey, sis — did you know that using an astrology compatibility app can fuck up your brain worse than spice?

* Your thoughts are so beautiful I love hanging them on my ear, but if you keep on fixing dates with that stoopid astrology compatibility app, ima need a bucket to catch your liquified skull contents. Do I gotta repeat that, cosya look real BLANK?

* Yeah yeah — stoopid frickin’ app gonna roastya brain an’ prolly frazzleya tinglydanglies off.

Gotta figure you are sufficiently inventive to think up sum examplesa your own — less’n the processa cerebral decay already got started.

This is how all resistance begins, tellya.

Fake nooz, steady drip, brain by brain.

App 2 Braino Virus.

App 2 Braino Virus.

App 2 Braino Virus…

Title Image c/o FirmBee @Pixabay

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