<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

WHY 2018 IS NEW YEAR AF TILL 2020

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?”

“Exactly.”

“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

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

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="4"></span> <span class="sdata" title="06, 2017"></span>

Foretellismo

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-06-26T11:30:21+00:00"></span>|Choice, Creativity, Motivation, Resolution, Uncategorized|0 Comments

FORETELLISMO

Storytellin’ is written inta the fabrica the Cosmos.

Always was (cos we got here to now — mostly in the kinda historical costoomsya see in the movies), an’ always will be (less’n we are frickin’ stoopid ‘bout narrative in super general an’ drop THE END before THE CLIMAX in the forma A NUKE).

Truth is, nuthin’ moves without generatin’ narrative.

Jus’ lickya lips for a sec, test this one out.

Feel them luscious lipsya got onya?

Coolest reality check I can muster, tellya — an’ now we gonna figure out what this all means … together.

Now?

Yup.

Way I see it, you got a whole buncha saliva in that speakyplacea yours.

Feel it?

You got inside an’ outside surfaceaya lips, tongue ridged an’ furrowed with innumerable tastetastic sulci — an’ that is beforeya consider any hairsya got fluffin’ offaya face with varyin’ degreesa hirsooteness (or bitsaya dinner caught inya teeth an’ stuff).

Gotta say, I describe this potential mlehfest clear as I can forya — equally imagined (cos I got no clue what fungal mayhemya got gowin’ on backsideaya toothy grin right now) an’ realo (I jus’ ate a banana btw) — an’ I would not wanna presoomya to be no kinda ZOMBIE got no motive sensualityaya own, but FFS you don’t even gotta lick on anythin’ to take in alla the info far as this experiment goes.

You are jus’ kinda there.

Or here.

Or whereverya are.

Truth is, you are a big lumpa YOU-stuffs — drool an’ lips an’ all — occupyin’ time an’ space, fulla potential to make sensea your place in the Cosmos via the mediuma allaya tinglydanglies.

Get To The Point. I Have A Life.

Point is, same kinda “lumpa-stuffs occupyin’ time an’ space” deal extends to alla the planets we got twirlin’ round the Sun alongside our lusho home world.

(Home world is called the Earth, jus’ in caseya never walked across the label.)

See, Joopiter an’ alla his planetary buddies been circlin’ the planet beyond before we hoomans — or even the dinosaurs an’ the amoeboid polypbeests — got to be around, an’ unless sum colossal asteroid comes bowlin’ into our solar system like a viciously spun cue ball, gotta figure the planets gonna roll on in their own sweet way till the enda time.

Science guys can even predict what they gonna do next, zillionsa years inta the fyooture.

Thinka what happens evry month.

Ain’t it jus’ weird how the Huff Post an’ other nooz outlets now regularly feature articles about the Moon alongside alla the usual celebrities behavin’ abominably schwango?

Full, Noo, Harvest, Wolf, Eclipse — there’s always sum loono story gowin’ down.

So much about inanimate objects is predictable — even monsterstuffs like Saturn an’ his zingoringo — but layered on toppa the bleak mathstrophysics is a delicious worlda myth — exotic an’ soulful stories gonna transform barren craters into moist an’ tender eyeballs with POV, persona an’ -morphin’ iris hues.

Neptoon alone could prolly fillya bathtub with luscious liquid legend, dear reader — exotic stories fulla immersive pullin’ power.

From brute gravitation comes allurea narrative, same as when hoomans kiss on one another’s lickyalipsibles after makin’ eyes ‘cross a crowded room.

In planets an’ people you got certainty meets uncertainty, an’ narrative blossoms from this catalytic touch.

Thing is — what happens next ifya are unpredictably vulnerable hooman ‘steada workaday celestial colossus?

Maths guys got the planets down — but what about alla us? What about our stories?

Gotta figure the enda ANY an’ EVRY unfoldin’ story always lies in the fyooture, an’ deep down we want alla the intertwinin’ narrative arcsa our lives to work out good an’ carry our favo ever protagonist an’ alla their buddies forward with heart an’ verve — same as fiery ol’ Mars or cranktasmal Uranus or dreammaculate Venus out there on a spin.

Where the planets got predictability, hoomans desire foretellismo.

Oh, Yeah — I Read That Right At The Start. What In Hell Are You Talking About?

Prolly you should Google it for yourself, but ima helpya out.

Here it is:

foretellismo means astrology beats marketing

Want my opinion?

I got no idea how Google never saw that comin’.

Tellya, algorithms, hardcore math an’ alla that superpredictive schwango got nuthin’ on artful simplicitya hooman creative flux.

We are such cool combiners an’ togetherers, all shadesa invention an’ discovery roll out BEGINNIN’, MIDDLE AN’ ENDIN’ from our interactions in time an’ space with any shit gowin’ down you wanna name.

(An’ btw, dontchya jus’ love how alla the planets got named after ancient gods an’ deified hero types?)

Foretellismo describes sumthin’ we all desire real bad.

It is a waya thinkin’ got more swagger than hollow prediction, more certainty than wild risk — an’ fewer obfuscatin’ cataracts than blind hope.

Consider it a wayta massage the eternal narrativea past, present an’ fyooture — evrythin’ you spun out to this precious heresynowsy moment reimagined beyond the infinite void betweenya story so far an’ the next cool things gonna happen.

Seems evryone craves mastery over that perpetually mutable sweet spot.

Despots, advertisers, fiction writers — an’ all shadesa people with all kindsa ferocious dilemmas who wake each day for wanta mebbe more than 24/7 struttin’ an’ frettin’ on life’s stage.

“Tell me, tell me, please — in my hour of deepest travial, will the choices I make today work out good?

Aw, cos ifya had that kinda punch on reality right now, how smacksyhitsy it would be to romp out on a fyooture got allaya invention-made-flesh flyin’ easy peasy fromya progenerative an’ experiential polyassholes!

Problem is, foretellismo is an illusion.

Fake News? Sorry — I Am Outta Here

Oh, but see — illusions’re powerful an’ super practical architectsa change.

They propel stories forward, fill ’em fulla lush expectationals — like any movie scene got Hugh Jackman stripped to the frickin’ waist.

All stories gotta move on into the unknown or they gonna get borin’.

That is why you never got roundta readin’ that 12,465 page trilogy entitled Night Of The Monk Contemplating Gorgonzola.

Where is the conflict there beyond please, braino — do not force me to pick this loser up an’ read it!

Borin’ is stuck — an’ no one likes the storya stuck if they are not only readin’ it aloud but also livin’ out its life-drainin’ enslavements evry relentlessly samo daya their finite existence.

Foretellismo helpsya form proto-tangible shapes in the Void mebbe you wanna reach for — or aspire to become.

It has illusion. It has sinew. It has benevolent mutability slooshin’ from its DNA.

Costoom foretellismo as astrology, an’ you got an archetypal menagerie gonna harmonize along withya half-formed hopes an’ schemes, its massed growls an’ pincersnaps syncopatin’ withya decisive action — all accompanied by that humma paralyzin’ charm oozes outta Librans when they burst into song in the mall.

Librans! Ha! Tell Me About It!

Way I see it, sumtimes we all need a narrative lift from the communal ether — motivation gonna pull us up outta sum present moment oblivionhole that is not simply BUY OUR PRODUCT! FEEL BETTER INSTANTLY! or GUESS WHAT? DEMOCRACY IS TOAST! or anya those context-unspecific quotationsya see vomited up on FaceBook like headless poultry in needa breast, drumstick an’ downhome seasonin’.

Gal workin’ long hours in sum loser store gonna be eaten by robots, old guy lost his lifelong sweetheart but nonea the memories, entreprenoor takin’ a gamble gonna fix or shaft — gotta figure alla these people are walkin’ stories, fulla love an’ loss, hopes an’ fears, triumphs an’ regrets, strung out sumplace where the fyooture shuffles unnervingly at reality’s edge like sum slumberin’ monster, ever outta reach yet still close enough for unknown talonsta thrash outta the darkness an’ scar with anxiety or fear. Or despair.

Alla these people can (if they wanna) take a dip inta their stars (by which I kinda mean the planets an’ their associated narrative twinklea myth an’ story) an’ divine elemental succor as they float on air, step out on solid ground, light up with inspirational fire, or go kiss on a fluffy hamster got the mange an’ mebbe jus’ an hourta live.

Evryone gotta figure what positive an’ influential stories matter most to them, I guess.

Historically, we gotta figure what dreams an’ illusions have moved most hearts an’ minds sumplace got more benefits for free exercisea hoomanstuffs?

I guess that is why the void between today’s versiona the fyooture an’ alla our stories so far got all kindsa misappropriated archetypes thrashin’ around in its insubstantial ethers like wannabe titanium stranglerats.

Thing is, astrology is instantly quaffable spiritual moonshine, one size fits twelve.

You wanna feel good cos you spent $300 on a noo cell phone gonna pissya off by the enda the week cos it promised INTUITION, DELIVERED TO YOUR FINGERTIPS — an’ then melted?

Or d’ya want that frissona satisfaction comes from havin’ your opinions confirmed by what later turns out to be fake nooz?

Or d’ya wanna mebbe win out cos y’are a Taurus? Dependable an’ true — an’ blessed with consummate donut eatin’ talentsya can synch with ballistic fart techniques in restaurants (with no riska failin’ to receive warm hugs from evryone)?

Truth is, no single life existed since hoomans got to be hoomans that walked the rainbowa sum singularly universal narrative arc.

We are mix an’ match aggregationsa what works — raw materials pulled from the herescape an’ blended all idiosyncratically happenable by our own brainos linkin’ up an’ smoochyin’ on out.

We are blissfully lickable tangible matter blessed with far-reachin’ imagination — if we wanna use it.

Sounds Dinky! Can I Steal That For My LinkedIn Profile Rewrite?

Sure, but for the sakea brevity, you should prolly jus’ write alchemist.

It is cheesy, I know — but what is cheese beyond milk an’ grass an’ cow giblet squirto all blended an’ squishoed together?

Thing is, stars mebbe got an angle onya lifeya can notch inya forwardstuffs bow alongside allaya other existential arrows.

Astrology don’t tell the whole story, but history, culture an’ emergin’ nooz kinda trainedya upta manipulate (an’ respond to) archetypal forces in flux.

Gotta figure nouveau astrology narratives might have a place right now alongside relative noocomers on the storytellin’ block like TV, Digita outta Home, an’ Facebook memes packin’ cat-themed motivational frickin’ mantras.

Antecedentsa this kinda schwango got born when people much like ourselves gathered round fires at deada night an’ entertained one another with stories as they compared rottin’ teeth, flaunted scars long as frickin’ snakes, an’ carbonized wild bunnies (before dyin’ at the ripe old agea 27).

No room for SOAP SO SMOOTH YOU’LL FEEL LIKE A GODDESS or 5 WAYS BECKHAM’S LATEST TATTOO WILL INSPIRE YOUR BATHROOM MAKEOVER there.

We gonna adopt astrology with more passion an’ diligence, we jus’ gotta take care we don’t get too far up our own assholes an’ lost off on celestial wankology people don’t give a shit about.

At the brain-zappin’ calculus enda the astrological scale, we got transits an’ conjunctions an’ all kinda crapola no one got a brain feels pain gonna much care for.

Other end is the more lyrical an’ poetic hooman touchpoint — the meltin’ potta all passion, spirituality an’ emotional jiz juice.

Astrology gotta always remember how the startin’ point for people is their passions — their dreams an’ interactions, their unfoldin’ works-in-progress, mebbe even their stoopid pets.

Took us a while, but right now in the noo millennium, we are loosenin’ up a little an’ bein’ straighter with one another ‘bout how our inner lives spin in an intricately woven yet sometimes unnervingly rift-riven way with the face we show to the world, an’ how we touch on one another in ever more divergent ways as we baseline tryta get a handle on the chameleon masqueradin’ as our own essence.

We are as planets spinnin’ round the Sun, only with waaaaaaaaaay more freedom, way more choice, way more sentient firepower.

On a good day, we even got streamin’ movies, bottlesa vino — an’ the sudoku-toppin’ trivia conundrum known as FFS what is covfefe?

But I figure qualitya summa the stories we got spinnin’ the globe here in 2017 is kinda lame.

Oblivion sniffs the wind an’ stomps a hoof inta the dust, readyta trample all achievement before it.

‘Gainst that foretellismocated certainty, prolly all kindsa different an’ more positive narratives gotta go workout sumplace fulla lycra skimpies an’ sweat — an’ up their game sum to the beata Kanye.

An’ astrology is one such game.

Centuries old, it is equally bloodied an’ ferocious.

But, hey — who cares ‘bout that?

These may be hard times for soft stories — and the soft people wish ’em into bein’ — but we seen worse before an’ we seen it through.

Gonna go write sum horoscopes now.

I am through bein’ quasi-academicalistic…

Title Image c/o Amber Avalona @Pixabay

Spread the love, slip in the bookmark, mix up the linky.

Notethis article originally appeared on the delish MEDIUM an’ is reproduced here

cos I am a real lazy fucker.