<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.

<span class="sdata" title="3"></span> <span class="sdata" title="04, 2017"></span>

Why Is My Horoscope All Weird?

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-06-10T04:24:28+00:00"></span>|Choice, Cosmic Roolz, Scopes|0 Comments

WHY IS MY HOROSCOPE ALL WEIRD?

More to the point — why is my horoscope all weird right now?

I mean, c’mon — sumthin’ crazysnakes is clearly gowin’ down in the celestial vapors, palpable as a bug-eyed fly makin’ with a waterboardin’-style plip plip plip as it dips its mandibular feelo-suckers in runny cheese.

Don’t haveta read a word; you can feel this vibe so close up an’ personal it is likeya are gonna birth Cthuloid triplets.

But before I don my Astro-apparela Consummate Stargazy Expertise an’ answer the more specific question, lemme fix on sum general basics gonna beef upya Horoscope Awareness Talents.

Why Is My Horoscope All Weird? Prolly Cos I Am All Weird.

Libra excepted, this is almost always never true.

You may act on your horoscope, but inflooencin’ it is a harder trickta pull — unlessya are an astrologist or astrologer or astrolodjinni person, in which case you got sum control cos Mother Cosmosis grantsya special permission to write out the magic words.

Thinka what would happen if mebbe Leo got inflooential Weirdo Power over her daily ‘scopes.

An’ I am thinkin’ ‘bout Shaney Skelangro here — yanno, the gal from Maine with the goofy teeth an’ zero control over her Crush Squee Siren?

Yeah, that Shaney.

So she is sittin’ in her room with her (frankly stoopid lookin’) dog, an’ she reads romance is in the air for you, Leo, so go breathe it in with pranayama verve and expect love to come knocking!

Forget for a sec that Shaney is a geeky kinda gal an’ would never practise Yoga less’n she got abducted by mindful aliens checkin’ hoomanity for physical bendiness.

Point is, prolly her dog gonna flee downstairs at this point as decidedly non-yogic (an’ essentially weirsdily habityool) squee breaths fire offa her lungs with such ballistic venom she is gonna need a frickin’ ribcage replacement by the agea 24 if’n she don’t sort herself out on the love thang.

(An’ for more on the love thang, check out how astro compatibility got isshoos here an’ replay Valentine’s Day here to figure how eacha the signs figures in the Romance & Eromance departiemente.)

Gotta figure that readin’ your horoscope indicates you got sum kinda desire for self-improvement, most likely based on evidence your life currently sucks, so that last parta the ‘scope is really gonna set Shaney’s pulse racin’ — hence the hyperventilational gymnastics.

Love knocks, an’ physiological wappocraft kicks off — in that order — an’ when Shaney re-reads the breathin’ to blendyjuicy narrative suggested by the ‘scope, her immediate experience (dog has now slashed its throat outta pure terror btw) kinda says this horoscope is all weird because I am all weird.

Result?

By the enda the week, when Quentinola de Prescioquincunschwangoglossen drops career recieves a boost today as flirty Mercury hooks up with charming Venus, Shaney’s funeral is greeted by fam and friends alike as ‘the outcome of desperate plea to find true love in a harsh and cruel world that mysteriously coincided with the frenzied decapitation of her beloved Schnauzer Legolas at the hands of the family breadknife’.

So is your horoscope all weird because you are all weird?

Trust me — you do not wanna go there.

Why Is my Horoscope All Weird? Prolly Cos Evrythin Is All Weird.

Stoopid thing is, that sounds pretty accurate to Moi.

Assoomin’ evrythin’ includes alla the planets whose intertwinklin’ is responsible for alla the celestialvapor-swishin’ zodiacal action allows gifted astrologer persons to formulate horoscopes in the first place, then if an astrological entity like The Moon forms a significant aspect with, say, Mars, while elsewhere in the orbital dance routine Joopiter hits real subtle on Pluto with a once-in-a-generation aspect got more syllables to its name than Scorpio can down cocktails in an hour an’ still stay standin’, then this specific (nay, weird) celestial combo is precisely the raw material gonna fuel horoscopes for eacha the signs.

Or from where else is alla the astrological schwango derived?

Catch here is how EVRYTHIN’ (weird or no) can inflooenceya HOROSCOPE (weird or no) — an’ yet YOU (sum small parta evrythin’) (an’ most certainly weird as batshit in my book if you are hangin’ out with Moi) CANNOT.

Do not ask me to resolve this thorny issue right now.

I am not a frickin’ botanist.

Why Is My Horoscope All Weird? Prolly Cos Life Itself Is All Weird.

I like this very much.

It is organic an’ fluid — indicativea heart, passion an’ mutual adventurepops.

Gotta figure most people look upon their horoscope as a kinda touchstone momentarily reconnectin’ ‘em with values, feelings an’ aspirations they hold dear.

Sajjo jus’ loves readin’Sajjo stuff, I guess — same as resta the Zodiac drills down on their superpersonal 8.3%a the astro action.

Sure, we got other stuff also, like favo shoes, places we like to go, structurally bizarre lizards we keep under the bed an’ get out at night when we cannot sleep (Shaney Skelangro’s bestie does this, btw), but where shit goes wrong is when people confuse considered prediction with certainty an’ view their horoscope as a script or instruction manual steada the producta sum drunken harridan a kinda landscape or blenda zeitgeists/potentialities — or jus’ a plain ol’ selectiona stuffya might wanna consider today.

Truth is, astrology got no more claim on the fyooture than money guys gamblin’ on their assets, politicians advocatin’ values, an’ anyone bettin’ thousandsa dollars on the boxer with the biggest dick.

Eacha these predictive disciplines got past form gonna inform — but it is only partial.

Jus’ cos astrology takes in’ evrythin’ don’t mean it is the final word on anythin’.

I do not like any kinda situation where EVRYTHIN’ may inflooence or control US, but we don’t get to reciprocate.

Enter into such an arrangement wilfully, then I figure you are fuckin’ stoopid.

So I would want horoscopes always to be touchstones.

Small an’ illoominatingly regular skips through time an’ space upon which you might wanna reflect so you can better effect changesya wanna see.

You are cast in all kindsa ways — butya are also FREE.

Think I said sumthin’ about this starta 2017 when I considered what it might mean to be resolved whenya desire for change comes up rough against … ulp … evrythin’.

Why Is My Horoscope All Weird Right Now?

Becauseya are not alone.

History shows how the world evolves through successionsa definable epochs.

Problem is, whenya are dumped right in the middlea one as it is playin’ out, day-to-day speculation wins out over proclamatory epochulation.

Truth is, we trooly DO NOT KNOW what is emergin’right now, an’ until science fits us all up with time-warpin’ cyberboobies, gotta figure our lives’re so brief we cannot revisit earlier times an’ look for clues gonna help us (beyond mebbe bonin’ up on shit don’t come offa the internets).

Drillin’ down smaller, you mebbe got sumthin’ to work with — an’ that is why I run regular monthly horoscopes.

Once evry 30 days, you can drop on by an’ touch base with sum small fragmenta the Cosmos’s divine wonder as manifested in 300 wordsa incandescently profound garbage.

(I am quotin’ my beta reader here.  Do not blame me for any praise currently orbitin’ Moi.)

Thing is, you seen April before, you got feelings for her, an’ despite only 11 months passin’ sinceya las’ met up an’ hung out, she cannot be relied upon to be exactly the same.

There is noo stuff, there is always noo stuff — besta all there is noo stuffya made for yourself.

As a free agent inflooenced by EVRYTHIN’, no less!

Natcho, you want this freedom to continue, an’ your horoscope figures alongside alla the other stuffya got gowin’ down inya life narrative armory, but April 2017 got a planetary showdown gowin’ on kinda makes consultin’ your horoscope touchstone almost DANGEROUS.

The heavens blaze with ardent an’ impassioned FIRE — not the warmin’ Leo kind nor the inspirational Sajjo variety, no no no we are talkin’ the weaponized, carbonizin’ Aries kind — while the people-friendly sweetheart planets  — Venus an’ Joopiter — play dirty c/o retrograde energy sickness alongside THE REAL FUCKIN’ MONSTERS — Mercury, Saturn an’ Plooto — havin’ a MUTUAL BAD HAIR DAY GROUCH FEST an’ seekin’ only to DESTROY! DESTROY! DESTROY!

Easily irritated Arian violence meets a quintuple cuntfesta SMOTHER, SWAT, STIFLE, STING an’ STUFF HARD UP THE POOPER.

Sadly, that is not weird — it is the truth.

So, yeah — “Horoscope All Weird” prolly sums up where shit is at right now for most evryone.

But what else d’ya want?

Horoscope All Same Old Same Old — Exactly As It Was When My Dear Grandaddy’s Gandaddy’s Grandaddy Consulted HIS Horoscope Touchstone And Smiled With Duped Contentment That The Cosmos Existed In Such Near-Permanent Stasis He Went Round And Round And Round And Round And Round And Round And Round And Round In The Same Old Circles Till His Teeth Fell Out And He FUCKIN’ DIED?

C’mon — I am tryin’ to saveya here.

Title Image c/o Steve Buissinne @ Pixabay

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<span class="sdata" title="6"></span> <span class="sdata" title="03, 2017"></span>

The Astrology Compatibility Mindfuckola

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-07-02T18:27:48+00:00"></span>|Blendyjuicy, Choice, Cosmic Roolz, Fate, Relationships, Washing Machine|0 Comments

THE ASTROLOGY COMPATIBILITY MINDFUCKOLA

In the wild an’ wacky worlda astrology, compatibility is the darnedest hot potater, tellya.

Alla that schwango about surefire an’ pre-ordained waysta bag the PERFECT soulmate for the PERFECT life with PERFECT you — is it really true?

Is it really gonna work?

More specifically, are alla those astrological mismatches doomedta fail?

Aw Gosh, I Hope Not! I Am In Such A Mismatch Relationship — And It Is Bliss! Please Don’t Tell Me I’m Being Delusional!

Tellya, textbook astrology compatibility scenarios orbit the internets, their dream solutions lit up by the twinklea the prediction-packin’ STARS.

Aries, you got Leo an’ Sagittarius — for fully flamed on love an’ adventure gonna rock out on verve an’ action.

An’ Taurus, you got Virgo an’ Capricorn — for a long term power duet fulla stability an’ trust gonna lastya.

Gemini, Libra an’ Aquarius can mix an’ match in infinitely intellect-tinglin’ ways, with plentya options for spicin’ up blendyjuicy’s boudoir.

An’ for full-on romance, spirityool bondin’ an’ tenderness, Cancer, Scorpio an’ Pisces make out in mebbe true love’s most expansive aquarium/desert area.

Leastaways, that is the kinda stuff I wrote out in my forthcomin’ Handy Astro Guides — an’ I got no desireta diss my own predictive fortune-dishin’ prowessitude aheada their release.

Hey! Quit Trying To Sell Shit Don’t Exist Yet, Princess! What Do You Think You Are — A Fucking Astrologer?

Hey — I dance an’ do yoga also, so go pick on sumone elseta rideya trope-assed one-trick pony round the Limited Talents theme park.

Point is, while these cosy, ‘single element’ matchups inviteyata tie up their fated certainties all sweet with a big ole booby doo ribbon — an’ even srsly mutant relationships like Taurus-Pisces an’ Gemini-Aries got cool link-up potential — the implication seemsta be that certain other combinations are kinda fuckoed from the outset, an’ ifya are stoopid beyond stoopid enoughta step out in such a maligned direction seekin’ eternal happiness an’ romance, the evil spirits patrollin’ the negative enda Fate’s spectrum gonna pee in a bucket bigger’n Saturn an’ sloosh it all over the bothaya in a surprise tsunami cataclysm whenya least expect it (most notably evry Monday, evry Tuesday, evry Wednesday…).

Cosmic Roolz’re clear.

Ifya are in anya these relationships…

Fixed Fixed — any comboa Taurus, Leo, Scorpio & Aquarius*

Cardinal Cardinal — any blenda Aries, Cancer, Libra, Capricorn

Mutable Mutable — mix an’ match Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, Pisces

* though not all four together, cos that would be filth.

…then eternal misery be thine — on a platter, inya face, prolly even swampin’ ya armpits as an irritatin’ rash.

(Yeah, yeah — I know there are special weirdsy rules for polar opposites attractin’, but I am tryin’ to be super scientific here by glossin’ over that to make a pointa fact. It is the way right now in 2017, dontchya know.)

Thing is, life is fulla relationships break the rules alla the time.

See on Facebook where they got mice snugglin’ upta cats?

An’ on YouToob, where they got bear cub meets fawn for first time an’ baby monkey gowin’ backwards on a pig?

Sure, in life’s menagerie, you don’t get the kinda oppositesya see bustin’ outta the zodiac — what in hell would the oppositea a giraffe look like anyway? — but with the right beest whisperer an’ camera crew, most any *impossible!* combo is … possible.

(‘cept for mebbe a python an’ a shark — or an eagle an’ onea them creepy underground salamanders with no eyes an’ skin smoother than a dick pulsin’ out all woody.)

An’ you gotta admit — impossible or curious or plain weird combinations make the world spin sweeter.

FFS! First You Scare Me Into Thinking That My Perfectly Happy Relationship Is Compromised In Some Way — And Now You’re Insinuating That I’m Impossible Or Curious Or Plain Weird. Aaaand You Said I Was Stoopid Beyond Stoopid. Why Should I Read Any Further?

Read? Hey — you’re practically writin’ this thing!

But I guess that is my point.

Cosmic Roolz though there may be, it don’t meanya can’t break ‘em from timeta time — an’ neither does it mean nuthin’ gonna work ifya go break ‘em big time, nor even that no bountiful an’ happiness-packed good can ever come buzzin’ like kissed-out hunny bees from a union hitched up on the edgea OBLIVION.

Gotta figure there’re plentya godawful mismatches out there among people with no clue ‘bout astrology don’t even know how fuckoed they truly are.

“Let’s make out in the woods, where I can stick my tongue in your throat till you howl like a wolf,” says she, havin’ never consulted a horoscope, never checked in on astrology compatibility — an’ never found out she is Sagittarius.

“Fine,” says he, consultin’ a list longer than the Bayeux Frickin’ Tapestry, “but there’s the cleaning to do first — not to mention the administration, the ironing, and planning for our vacation in 2029. So why don’t you go walk the dog for a couple hours, and when everything here is spotless, I’ll wash and iron the bedsheets so they’re spankingly pristine and clean, and we can spend the rest of the day fucking one another’s brains out so hard and so good that this little ol’ place we call home will make the national news as an earthquake zone registering 9 on the Richter scale.”

(Most Virgos are smart enoughta know they are Virgos, but this guy is clearly a relative halfwit in that department.)

Thenya got other relationships pullin’ in some real power whoopee from a union fated to collapse don’t even realise their beautylicious existence depends entirely on rules they got no idea their amour flaunts — kinda like Donald Rumsfeld’s unknown unknowns, only with more provocative undergarments an’ mouth-wateringly curvaceouser insertables.

“Take me from behind! In a costume! Mouthing stream of consciousness gibberish in Ancient Greek!”

“Handcuffed to the ceiling and free swinging like a pendulum — or with the both of us sealed in the leather cocoon I hand-crafted from prime buffalo hide in my secret mountain hideaway?”

(Any fully functional Libra-Capricorn pairings out there recognize this scenario? I figureya gotta have not the faintest frickin’ clue what is gowin’ on astrologically, spiritually — an’ prolly even financially — to enjoy that baby.)

Gotta figure also that Moons an’ risin’ signs, Venus an’ Mars — an’ even frickin’ Plooto — all got plentya inflooence down deep in the astrological mix.

Coupla mismatched Sun signs up top could work out real sweet if evrythin’ links up compatible an’ perfect down deep inya planetary undercarriage.

Want my opinion?

This whole system is a frickin’ mess, tellya.

What Do You Propose As A Solution To This Astrology Compatibility Conundrum, O Princess? (And I Must Tell You Here That I Am Only Sticking Around Because That Last Part About Ironing The Bedsheets Really Turned Me On And I’m Hoping For More Of The Same, Preferably Involving A Washing Machine, Please.)

Ha!

We kneelin’ on top together — or layin’ our fanjos out flat on the metalwork for max vibe power?

I guess the thing is, this whole astrology compatibility deal is all about how adventurous you wanna be.

How comfortable, how risky, how rhythmically functional, how fraught with peril.

‘Steada Cosmic Roolz — unbreakable — gotta figure on a hierarchya possiblilities — all makeable (but mebbe with consequences).

Playin’ for the home team is prolly easier than mixin’ it up with the away side — allaya Mojo Suite (emotional, sexyool, spiritual, financial, practical, aspirational etc) fully catered for an’ powerin’ out inta the blue on a tightly defined directive ticket — but the green grass on the other sidea the hill got advantages also, as in how that very same Mojo Suite gonna mebbe bust out on a more uncertain an’ potentially rewardin’ growth ticket, pullin’ in challenges, setbacks an’ unexpected discoveries as furniture an’ dinner plates are thrown about at random.

An’ I would wantchya to think about that.

Earth, Air, Fire an’ Water all got their own ways they wanna be.

A Fire partnership mebbe gonna be intrinsically more volatile than its Earth counterpart, but it still has a tightly defined directive ticket.

Not so the Sagittarius-Virgo relationship I mentioned earlier, before I sat up top on the washin’ machine withya to drill down, max spin, on my concludin’ vibe.

In this relationship, Sagittarius gonna open Virgo up sum, an’ I wantchyata know how powerful a force this kinda Earth Revved up by Fire combo can be.

Gotta thinka Star Wars here — only insteada the Jedi pluckin’ Luke Skywalker from his day-to-day tedium, they chose Cinderella.

On the flipside, what does Sagittarius really need?

Another fire sign stokin’ ‘em up, aggravatin’ their violent tendencies, an’ urgin’ ‘em to yell CUNT! alla the time?

Not always.

Jus’ as the Cinderella story got its own transformational punch, there are plentya cool narratives out there in books an’ movies feature the upstart whupped inta shape an’ saved from herself by sum kinda ‘informed master’ figure— or himself ifya are thinkin’ Dr Strange … an’ I wanna thinka Dr Strange, trooly I do, O Benedict, Benedict, Benedict…

Ahem.

As anyone watches Joopiter an’ Saturn knows, journeys can be equally about expansion an’ compromise, abandon an’ rigor, exploration an’ diligence — an’ sumtimes these qualities flip over.

For Sajjo, is not the Virgoan rulebook a kinda ultimate wilderness survival escapade, diligence turned exploration?

“I am Sagittarius — romping o’er hill and dale in search of freedom, tail swishing freely about my gorgeously toned equine ass.”

“Fine. But I am Virgo — and I’m gonna sit you on a rock in the middle of the ocean till you quit fucking around and squandering your life. Want freedom? Okay, so go wanderlust yourself the heck outta that panorama, you self-destructive bohemian buffoon!”

An’ on the flippo…

“I am Virgo — passionately bound to routines and strategies for teasing precisely what I want from life with my forensically-honed cerebellular colossus.”

“Fine. But I am Sagittarius — and I want you to know you are wasted in that stupid lab working for that asshole takes advantage of your generosity. So I say we move to Japan, throw out all our old clothes, and get you the intermittent urinary catheter design technician’s salary your nitpicky fucking brain deserves.”

For Virgo, is not Sajjo’s boundless optimism an’ lust for travel kinda compromise transformed into expansion? Diligence turned into exploration?

Same intrinsic Virgo deal, only bigger an’ better?

I am only speculatin’ here, an’ I am only usin’ a few limited examples, but I hopeya get the picture.

First The Washing Machine…And Now The Intermittent Urinary Catheter! Are You Trying To Bring Me Off Here Or What?

Hey, I jus’ wanna bring evryone onboard here.

With the deal.

See, astrology is not set in stone.

FFS alla the planets’re spinnin’ in thinnest vapor, an’ mosta ‘em are either ice, gas or crap.

Only permanence is the math underlyin’ their synchronized flingo (an’ I will say more about that another time).

Rest is kinda open season — energies an’ archetypes playin’ out as pan-MMORPG narrative.

Truth is, fate is options, choices, decisions.

Hard an’ easy. Sweet an’ bloody. Washin’ machine an’ intermittent urinary catheter.

An’ much as we wanna hitch evrythin’ up all perfect astrology compatibility fixed done sunset credits roll, sumtimes…

…oh, jus’ a few sweet sumtimes…

… the rightest wrong person ever swoops inta our life from outta frickin’ nowhere — an’ we gotta be real smart ‘bout what we choose gonna happen next…

Title Image c/o Alexas-Fotos @ Pixabay

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