Yeah, I know — this is the worst possible headline to suspend with wilful dangliture as the first blog post on a virgin astrology website ever.
But I figure it is cool to be honest about the direction I am takin’, ‘specially as it is Noo Year an’ nuthin’ much has been spoiled yet beyond mebbe stomach linin’ an’ a zillion carpets.
So I will say it again — only this time without the assistancea sum zesty headline font.
Dear Sweet Jesus, This Astrologer Is Clearly A MONSTER.
Get Me The Hell Outta Here!
Oh, butya gotta understand I do not mean YOU, sweet observera wonders.
I am jus’ clearin’ decks on 2016 in a kinda out-with-the-old, in-with-the-noo fashion, cos I guess starta the year is when we all reflect sum on the passagea time an’ our place within its unrelentin’ spinola.
An’ anyways, 2016 is gone.
She can no longer hear our cries, be they fuck off or fuck on, an’ her power to bless or corrupt us has transformed from fullnessa presentpulse magnitude to eternal gonesterismo, like all her rage an’ love an’ despair an’ hope was jus’ sum waya burnin’ off calories before she got to lay down her pretty head an’ go sleep.
So, we are here now, big Janno 1st kinda day — an’ if your head ain’t still throbbin’ with party time booby doo, prolly you got a whole lista stuff you wanna figure this year — buncha dreams, big ideas, fashion schemes etc.
An’ that is cool.
Sorry. I Still Believe You Are Totally Nutzoid, Princess Ba … whaddeva.
Why Should I Indulge Your Evident Foibles By Reading On?
Because you are curious, possibly even cute.
Thing is, all anyone gotta do is say fuck off fuck off fuck off — an’ they lure the world toward their incredibly uncrass secrets like storm clouds cummin’ electricity to birth a Frankensteinian taboo.
All I am doin’ is makin’ this much-documented process difficult — cos I know howya love feelin’ exclusive.
Tellya — you got this far, we prolly lost 75%a the flip-thru socmed-crazy Zombie Lost between us.
Those bozos’re so certaina their direction they will clickeddy-clickeddy-click from link to website to link forever to find it.
So give yourself a celebratory Noo Year pat on the back for hangin’ on in with Moi.
Prolly meansya ain’t as stoopid as evryone says.
Gotta land yourself in the top 25%a stuff, right?
Hey … Quit Beginning To Make Some Kind Of Sense, You Loon…
Stop bein’ sucha poopypants an’ show me your ALLORNUTHIN’ beforeya read any further.
Way I see it, ifya are gonna fuck on withya lista dreams an’ ideas an’ fashion schemes an’ shit, you gotta be sure you are worthya Mother Cosmosis’ precious time in her capacity as Bitch-queen-in-chief O’er The Whole Shebango.
Cos she is sooooo batshit busy out there in the void, fillin’ up alla the nuthin’ with alla the sumthin’ an’ gracin’ evythin’ with an orchestrated whirl jus’ so’s alla the assholes stranded down here on Terra Firma got sum kinda show beyond peerin’ into one another’s eyeballs an’ concludin’ no one is frickin’ home.
You want her to smile sweetly onya (an’ alla your re-solootions), you gotta show sum commitment, sum faith in whatya believeya want, cos no divine bein’ ever illuminated a half-assed heart — ‘specially the ones never existed in the first place till we made the fuckers up.
Butya gotta remember Mother Cosmosis don’t dictate your lista dreams, nor decide if it stands or falls.
She is, like alla the tweety birds an’ cutesy animals in Snow White, jus’ another summonable ally you can call on asya stride out into a milieu packin’ evil witch persons fulla bad intent.
An’ stride you gotta, sumhow.
Cos those are the frickin’ rules.
Way I see it, progress is inevitable, an’ without people like you guys — passionate an’ animate, thoughtful an’ beautiful — all we got goin’ in our cornera the Cosmos is a bottomless, topless, sideless, shapeless VOID — a whole buncha rock an’ dust an’ ice spinnin’ time’s finite energy downta zero on the dial till all scrapsa matter squish out through sum humongo black holea oblivion, forever consumed, forever destroyed, forever dead an’ gone.
Progress is a real bitch that way, I guess.
But hey — while we are waitin’ for Armageddon, we still got burgers.
An’ pop icons incapablea not bein’ frickin’ assholes.
All vomitin’ forth from the progeneratively onward marcha time.
That is why it ain’t still 2016 — an’ when 2016 got started, why it stopped bein’ 2015.
(Might takeya a while to get the idea, but trust me — you can repeat this mathematical process alla the way back to zero an’ then keep on gowin’. I got a numbers guru pal tells me such things are possible.)
Oh, but now we are gonna get real serious, real down to the wire…
Because prolly you do not believe in astrology.
Bein’ super smart an’ super savvy, you are connected, you got a vision, an’ your future is entreprenoorially whimsome, vimsome, an’ shimmersome — entirely independenta Fate’s fickle finger teasin’ the rimmaya butthole an’ fillin’ you fulla reflex kicks 24/7.
But see, great ballsa stuff beyondya hearts’s desires, more colossal mebbe thanya could ever imagine them to be — they been circlin’ in cool kindsa unison since beforeya best smartphone fingers bust as pre-finger polyps from outta the primordial swamp back when the pre-2016 progress numbers were negative as shit.
You with me now?
Hapless in form an’ deed before more colossal and unified gravity than you will ever possess?
(Note to self: do not overplay the melodrama here, Princess, especially on an astrology website whose virgin post proffers the headline FUCK OFF.)
Ahem … So … Uhm … Positive Booby Doo, Make Withya Bestest Optimismo
Before This Blog’s Fledgling Readership Shoots Its Frickin’ Self
So, listen — I would wantyata think real hard ‘bout that lista stuffya been scribblin’ out between wrappin’ presents for alla your loved ones, eatin’ way too much figgy poodang, an’ offerin’ up your memoriesa 2016 to Death’s ever-whirlin’ scythe.
Cos in that ole wish list, you got tiny seedsa beautiful possibility, desiresya wanna grow — even if it is jus’
* quit smoking
* locate missing blue sock
* iron tights like a pro
* purchase anti-boner strap for the pool
* be a decent person in the face of oppression, danger, rejection —
and abduction by flibble-faced aliens
Or else what is the pointa wishin’?
Why not jus’ stick with what is here?
Picture that scenario…
Do Not Shutya Eyes To Picture This Next Part
Or You Gonna Miss Alla The Detail I Wrote Out
“Aw gosh,” you say, as a yawn splitsya face in two, “what a fun day December 31st has been!”
Thenya flopya head on the pillow, dream allaya best dreamisum thoughts, an’ rise the followin’ morn with the sun onya pretty l’il face an’ Noo Year carpe diem determination pumpin’ roundya biddy widdy heart alla the way inta catalytic networka your arterial zoomtree.
“What a miracle it is that nothing has changed!” you mutter, pluckin’ ballsa crusty slumber fromya eyes. “All is as it was, in perfectly suspended stasis! A fluid EverNow flowing forever undiminished into the future!”
Tellya, in that scenario, it is like evrythin’ is sorted, all neat an’ tidy.
An’ all endeavor, strivin’ an’ initiative’re jus’ hummin’ along by default.
But, see, thenya go do sumthin’ real frickin’ stoopid by lookin’ in the mirror.
Prolly you figure allya doin’ is brushin’ your teeth or fixin’ your hair or seein’ how smooshied your make-up is from the night before.
But whatcha really lookin’ at is Death.
Gulp. ‘Fraid So.
Thing is, Death’s touch is ever onya, slowest singular caress in the historya IRL porno.
Means only one thing in the end, whatever the Here & Now, whatever the presence or absencea reflection.
Thing is, sweet observera wonders, your skin gonna rot, your teeth gonna drop fromya mouth, an’ your life gonna burn up till it snuffs out an’ is gone.
Cos you know, deep down, how that person from yesterday kinda never quite made it through to now, dontcha?
Same as the gal from January 1st 2016.
The guy from January 2015.
An’ alla the goofy lookin’ kidsya once were, back in the dead forever day.
An’ ifya spin time aheadaya, fix on sum numbersya mebbe don’t wanna think about too much right now — 20, 30, 40, 50! — numbers that might seem impossible forya truly to figure, you gonna reach a point beyond which no person has ever made it through.
(Google informs me this point is 122 years 164 days — some French gal called Jeanne Calment. Tellya, I ever get reptiles for my apartment, I am savin’ that monicker up for my dinkiest terrapin.)
So ya gotta be brave an’ face the music.
Dance, eternally in motion, forever pulsin’ forward on unremittin’ change.
You gotta walk out, continually renewed, travelin’ light with Mars an’ Venus an’ Joopiter — an’ alla their funky friends.
Cos in the end, we are all intimately conjoined win-wins or lose-loses.
Alla us spirited or unspirited things rollin’ round together — or not here at all.
An’ that is why your lista resolootions is kinda important.
If change is inevitable, you gotta get somea it on your team.
Be its agent insteada its slave.
That way, stepsya take gonna mebbe make sum kinda difference beyond mere vegemechanical footfalls fillin’ up the days — long asya remember evryone else got the same deal gowin’.
Days, weeks, months, years, decades — mebbe even centuries ifya are lucky as Jeanne Calment — evryone steps out, always, into a world spinnin’ round a balla fire.
Evryone is spinnin’ in a void.
So when sumone other than yourself flies pastya, gotta figure sumplace for ‘em onya lista resolootion stuff.
Or no fingers gonna hook ‘emselves together, no palms gonna reach out for hugs, an’ no kissin’ ever gonna happen.
Welcome To 2017 — Another Final Frontier Yet To Pack Dust
So whattya hangin’ around here for?
Wastin’ your time readin’ astroschwango whenya could be cartwheelin’ out into your personal cornera the world, pumped so fulla go-gettin’ motivation powerya could freak out a Giant Redwood an’ still have spook factor left overta mix it with mebbe wolves or sharks?
Actschly, I guess it is because you are not an asshole.
I figure yours is a more refined an’ considered pumpin’ wherein flexa muscle is measured insteada ballistospasmal.
Cosya wrote out a lista stuffya kinda wanna hit on this year, right?
I like that.
I like that very much.
So mebbe stick around, huh?
This stoopid buncha unborn days got ‘2017’ looped around it like sum glitter-spangled asteroid belt prolly gonna be intrestin’…
Image c/o Drew Hays @ Unsplash