<span class="sdata" title="10"></span> <span class="sdata" title="07, 2017"></span>

Sagittarian Firepower

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-06-28T12:31:34+00:00"></span>|Creativity, Fire Signs, Initiative, Motivation, Practical Astrology, Sagittarius|0 Comments

SAGITTARIAN FIREPOWER

Wanna talk longbows an’ crossbows withya, kinda Sagittarian Firepower.

I got no agenda here especially — this is jus’ horsey gal frankness shootin’ off into the Void in hopea sparkin’ up maxo fyooture swankospankiness as tippa bolt mebbe grazes twinklea star.

Intrested? Prolly You Should Leave Now If’n You Ain’t.

Thing is, I love how those Medieval guys travelled far an’ wide for the best materials they could find, hackin’ down trees, beatin’ off wolves, forgin’ stuff outta iron — an’ battlin’ with occasional dragons the sizea frickin’ asteroids.

(An’ before anya you Virgo types haul me up by my historicals, I am not tryin’ to pull a simultaneously existent hoomans an’ dinosaurs trip here with longbows an’ crossbows in the contexta the entire Medieval epoch — so SIT DOWN, willya?)

Gotta figure life was tough before the Rennayesance.

Mosta what we noo millennium dwellers would consider to be our lifetime was, for those guys, merely an opportoonity to jump on death’s bandwagon via the mediuma crappo healthcare, unrestrained plague bugs, an’ fearful overlords overdosin’on the adrenalin-pumped sugar rush comes with slashin’ to pieces friend an’ foe alike with blades humongo enough to fell Redwoods.

Sum lousy Dear Diary that all was.

(Tellya, back then they got outta control scabrousness an’ infections, zero experiencea nachos, an’ undergarments gonna shrivel desire along withya tinglydanglies. Pas pour Moi!)

I guess the only thing stoppin’ evryone from weepin’ at the thought that mebbe the fyooture was gonna get way brighter one day after their short an’ miserable lives had counted for nuthin’ (an’ what losers they were for bein’ born into the wrong epoch etc etc) was the even more disturbin’ thought that their miserable plight was gonna prevail for all eternity.

Prolly the only thing made life viable was shootin’ sum deer or frickin’ duck an’ gatherin’ round the fire to chomp ‘pon sinew an’ beak, blissfully ignoranta chipotle reflux burpo.

Anyways, to hell with alla that.

This is an astrology website, not sum academic discourse ‘bout the rights an’ wrongs of what a buncha dentally challenged & hierarchically enslaved freakos believed was true in the Darkest of Ages.

So we gotta wonder, dear reader, when it comes to expectations ‘boutya present moment history-in-the-makin’ — areya fated to be a loser for the resta your life?

Is your evry atomic particle cast from the driven madness of sum impendin’ Apocalypse?

Or does spinna planets, dancea celestial orbs, got effortlessnessa mutability you can reach out an’ cup inya hand — an’ abuse to your advantage?

I would wantcha to think for a moment ‘bout pluckin’ sum dream outta the sky asya stand before the heavens in alla your beautyflesh.

An’ cos we’re talkin’ missile weapons here, what better waya figurin’ the small detaila nailin’ distant objects than by meansa a super pointy arrow, lined up an’ fired true by your own hand-eye-butt buncha physioselfstuffs.

So C’mon — Up On Your Feet, You Lazy Sucker! Get Ready For Sum Sagittarian Firepower!

This is where we get all interactive, kinda virtual VR, an’ turn slacker generation webfodder inertiatox into aerobic exercise gonna saveya when zombie mutants rise upta huntya down, fat frickin’ snowflake ass first.

Cos you got your bow withya, right?

Here all along, andya know it — jus’ mebbe never brandished its transmutational ballistics with sufficient bravado before.

So, gowan, twang the string, hear it ker-ping — like Ed Sheeran pluckin’ a pubo d’Or outta his ass to clear a path for the sun’s rays.

Feel the smooth curvesa the limb pullin’ tight on the string, let ‘em ooze out beneath your fingertips asya reach over your shoulder to your quiver.

[Optional Side Quest — you got sum fancy elven cape drapin’ offaya, its fine tassles ticklin’ the backsa your knees.]

Arrow got tightest feathers, essencea silk an’ daggers, so go draw it outta your quiver, slow an’ neat, hear it hiss a valiant farewell to its fellows as its tip pulls back gentle over their shafts.

Then knock it, ready to fire.

*scowls*

FFS put your frickin’ phone down an’ do this PROPER, OK?

Howya gonna focus with that stoopid thing pumpin’ crap inya frickin’ face like sum ditzo teen driver rammin’ the ass offa the rear fendersa the planet?

So, yeah, lose the phone, feel the bow, (an’ the optional cape an’ bandana … did I mention the bandana?), knock the arrow an’ —

Waitaminute. We forgot sumthin’. Sumthin’ real important.

Kinda got lost off here in the sensual glowa the physical, forgettin’ you gonna shoot this arrowa yours off sumplace an’ thus require full functionalitya your cerebellular area.

So, hey — where an’ what is the target?

I dunno whereya are right now, standin’ proud as fuck withya illusory weapon shimmerin’ inya hand — mebbe your favo room, your garden, or a coffee shop fulla people wondrin’ what in hell you’re doin’ — but we gotta getcha sum pointa focus.

Sum sweet spot jus’ outta reach.

Cos what is the pointa firin’ off imaginary arrows at stuffya already got?

Those things ain’t targets, they’re possessions.

An’ when I say outta reach, I’m talkin’ beyond all sensation — kinda further out than your eyeballs can see (both your bodily balls an’ their internal an’ imaginary-asya-bow “mind’s eye” braino versions).

See, pick out sum distant target you can see, an’ in termsa sensibility it kinda becomes as mucha a possession as the groundya got to stand on, the tangibly unevident bowya got inya hand, an’ anythin’ you can name (even if it is sum made-up word like summa the schwango I regularly drop as surprises on Google jus’ for kicks).

You could aim for that kinda stuff, but pointa the exercise is to makeya look frickin’ stoopid to question what it meansta have a target to aim at, an’ how your place in time an’ space, allied to the stanceya take to alla that, kinda determines what targets — viewa what targets — gonna be possible forya.

Cos unless those Medieval guys had done whatever it is that they did when stuff looked as bad as it was, we would alla us still be firin’ off missiles at frickin’ ducks, bleedin’ our diseased innards outta our thrush-cacked twennysumthin’ assholes, an’ dyin’ early before we had the luxurya experiencin’ Alzheimer’s or liver rot from decadesa alcohol abuse.

Wherein, quirka fate, lyethya twist?

So Let’s Get Serious With The Filosophical Aspecta Sagittarian Firepower, Huh?

Hmmm. Prolly you can putchya bow down for a sec an’ giveya arm a rest while we muse on this diresta conundrums — together, as a brain-bustingly enlightened symbiotic phenomenon.

Thing is — what you gonna do right now to make the fyooture diffrent?

(An’ for full effect, you prolly gotta thinka yourself as a flea-nibbled, urine-stinky, toothless, scab-encrapped, coughin’, wheezin’snotballa Dark Ages serfjunk, your shit-starched wooden undergarments bulgin’ their codpiece pride thanksta a pulsatin’ swampa genital bugs writhin’ all overya dick an’ cunnyhole on the exponentially progenerative frickin’ rampage.)

C’mon — you got your bow an’ arrow ready, an’ then some stoopid bunny rabbit jus’ hopped inta view (cos the people in your hamlet backwater shot alla the ducks) — so what you gonna do to impact on the fyooture?

Or is your fate all down to the randomly happ’nin’ lapin?

She hops into your experienced reality on sum booby doo hopsy skipsy trip, an’ your every wishawhim orbits her buncannily beguilin’ presence cos any initiativeya got for doin’ sumthin’ else been hijacked?

In which case, what has the bunny got in its Life Direction locker over your haplessly incontrovertible defaulteeism?

What is the difference between your opportoonity either to procreatively impact on the world or haplessly react to it … an’ the correspondin’ buncha potentials an’ circumstances Cap’n Flopsy Wopsypants got?

Cos you can only aimya arrow at what is out there, an’ what is out there is the only possible target forya arrow, right?

*FFS … c’mon…*

For progress gonna blitz the crabfest outtaya pants an’ shine upya teeth to beam with glee, sumhow you gotta see beyond all possibly available targets.

We have those already; they are here.

Sure, gonna take time to figure ‘em out — fix up the right kinda bow an’ train up the stamina an’ skill to wield her — but what are we sposeta do while alla that is playin’ out?

Sit idle?

Wait for the magica illoominated solutions to roll out when they are fully cooked an’ resoom all speculation only when we taste for seasonin’?

Let’s Rev Up The Sagittarian Firepower An’ Quit Bein’ Assholes

You are Eye, an’ you are Flesh, an’ you are Heart.

Gotta start out with Eye, cos all things sensible are fulla holes, an’ trooly it is the infinite space between shit whereya gotta do sum aimin’.

Monster frickin’ expansea quasi-vapor we got between the Sun an’ the Earth is kinda the reason why alla us are here.

That buncha zilcho is real important in the relationship between alla the non-zilcho, tellya.

Place two non-zilcho tangibles together — coupla possessions mebbeya already got — an’ sumthin’ squirts up from outta the ZilchoVoid an’ glistens between ‘em like the semena invention.

Evry couplin’ suggests multiple links, bonds or potentially conjoinin’ forces — nonea which exists sufficiently to be perceived prior to the union.

Oh, but beforeya amygdala does an Alien-from-outtaya-stomach downya throat kinda panic thing cosya are thinkin’ what in fuck is this ditzo astrologer dribblin’ on about?, jus’ gotta reassureya that ifya are in a coffee shop … on the metro or in the mall … nonea the dangerous shit I mentioned earlier involves semen; I am nuthin’ if not a firm believer in a lacka gloopy ickyness in public places.

Semen here is jus’ a metaphor.

Prolly best to thinka sumthin’ else sparkly an’ silvery, like mebbe the stars I mentioned, starta this article — the ones mebbe tippa your arrow gonna graze as it flies between ‘em into a ZilchoVoid gotta be filled with sumthin’ cos its essence is onea betwixtiture as suggested by any coupla starsya choose.

Or any coupla anythin’.

So, up onya feet withya bow, an’ … name two thingsya see — NOW!

Call em’ out, possess their evidence, jus’ like sum rabbit boobled out in frontaya stinky pant pilea Medieval serfjunk.

Whateverya got right now — call it out.

Beard guy! Coffee cup! Pajamas! Rain! Tarantula! Bikini! Gimpo espedrilles!

Hell, I dunno — whateverya got inya life right this moment NOW!

Not my place to conjecture thatya are a seriously weird fucker!

Sagittarian Firepower says target is there in the interplay between those two thingsya got, the suggestions come pourin’ outta jus’ movin’ ‘em up close for scrutiny … or aim … an’ the closerya fit your coupla stuffs together, the more you gonna see shape an’ form grow outta the ZilchoVoid so’s you can figure on its potentially transformative an’ illusory &ness.

But DO NOT FIRE OFF YET, do not be impulsive.

Wieldin’ that bowa yours gonna take sum physical aptitood.

You are Eye, an’ you are Flesh, an’ you are Heart, remember?

See, I know whatya jus’ did, anyaya played along an’ psyched upta take a pop at that spaceya jus’ opened up outta the ZilchoVoid got sumthin’ there — paintin’-cum-book, hatdude-cum-sneaker, pillow-cum-zombie (fuuuuuuuck! It has begun!) — I saw howya movedta act.

But I wanna pullya up on sumthin’.

Bow weighs less than air, so whydya lean back?

Gotta stay upright, gotta stay on your feet.

Bein’ formeda momentary confluxstuffs, target ain’t truly fixed — an’ neither are you.

So quit leanin’ back an’ lockin’ your legs all stiffo.

Keep sum fluid inya knees an’ thinka firin’ offya arrow like sum dancer switchin’ dynamic form as she balances from perky stance to perky stance.

Cos that is kinda what the planets’re doin’ — exhibitin’ fluidity an’ explorin’ the space they got between ‘em.

Tellya, I love watchin’ animated modelsa the solar system, seein’ grace plucked outta the random on an Earth-sustainin’ swirl.

Nuthin’ is static here, nothin’ trooly stops, an’ the only genuine freezeya got is mebbe sumthin’ like Neptoon, cos partsa her ass’re like minus a zillion degrees, which in layman’s terms means she gonna freezeya frickin’ tits off.

Point is, do not fix to fireya imaginary bow.

Strain gonna meanya mebbe miss the target, an’ thenya gonna be real pissed off, mebbe give up.

Vision, strength an’ flexibility — those’re 2 outta your 3 Sagittarian Firepower essentials.

So gowan, stay loose, an’ loose your arrow.

Fwoooooooooooooooooooooooossshhhh!

Returnin’ to the stoopid rabbit in the Medieval village packin’ full-on gonorrhea, gotta figure what happens afterya pluck sublime novelty from outta the ZilchoVoid.

This a bunny worth eatin’?

Or didya jus’ target a dud?

Truth is, not evrythin’ gonna be anythin’ cos, hey — why should it?

Mebbe that buncha confluxstuffya jus’ nailed withya arrow is kinda dumb or lame.

An’ mebbe you even tried this coupla times now, same effect.

*scowl* *pout* *poopy pants*

But this is where Heart figures in the Sagittarian Firepower deal, cosya must not be discouraged — even ifya fire off all frickin’ day for sweet FA.

Thing is, you don’t pick up the bow, an’ you don’t get nuthin’.

Keep searchin’, keep onya feet an’ firin’ off, for sure you gonna land sumthin’, sumtime.

An’ ifya can keep gowin’, lame after lame after lame after useless fuckin’ loser asshole lame, pretty soon you gonna hit on sumthin’ real special.

It is true that occasionally ideas hitya “outta the blue”, but most times your role in this process is kinda passive — havin’ done sum thinkin’, you are an enlightened recipienta subsequent fruits.

Up onya feet with a bow, actively nailin’ phantasms from outta the ZilchoVoid in real time, you switch out from bein’ Passive-reflective Person to Procreatively Entreprenoorial Colossus.

I dunno, sumthin’ ‘bout bein’ a colossus kinda levelsya up, an’ makin’ with the lame don’t happen so often.

Weird, butchya get kinda choosier ‘bout alla the nuthin’.

Good stuff kinda jus’ starts stackin’ up.

An’ whenya piled up a whole buncha phantasmal treasures, wrested from beyond immediately tangible targets, mebbe thenya gotta figure the final parta the Sagittarian Firepower deal.

Question is, how may times d’ya think those pus-orificed & toothless Medieval bow guys struck out into the forest huntin’ for bunnies … an’ kept alla the bunny meat for themselves?

As in they shot a bunny, cooked the fucker all secret behind a tree, then consoomed it all alone with a special knife an’ fork they knitted outta reeds an’ hid in their boots?

I would so that, for sure.

Easier with, I dunno, sum … sandwich — sumthin’ don’t need cookin’.

Yeah, I guess those bow guys pulled that stunt a few times.

But not always, an’ not forever.

They do that, they transform into the useless bow guy always comes back with fuckin’ nuthin’.

Actschly, lemme rephrase that.

They transform into the useless — an’ uncannily overweight for sumone hangin’ out in the scabrousness-friendly Medieval epoch — bow guy always comes back with fuckin’ nuthin’.

An’ who wants a cunt like that on their team?

So, hey, gonna pluck stuff outta nuthin’ withya bow, gotta figure this is shitya gotta hand out to folks don’t got nonea it.

Fuck bein’ selfish — momentya see the kinda stuff that is trooly out there, the moreya see mosta it is stuffya bring back.

Perhaps it is my own weird thing, I dunno, but I got sumthin’ for people walk out to the edgea the Void an’ return with bounty gonna rev the show up sum.

I would be mortified to sack essencea angels only to return home an’ mount it on my livin’ room wall in a bottle.

Heart to go seek, heart to share.

Otherwise what is gowin’ on?

The hooman race strides forward for all eternity, packin’ the same rottin’ teeth, plague-ravaged bodies an’ genitalia awash with acrobatic crab fountains?

Or the same thing happens, minus a few selfish fuckers locked inside their bunkers oglin’ treasures whose value they cannot ever understand…?

Title Image c/o RoyalHoliday @Morguefile

(Strictly speakin’, archer gal should have the full Sagittarian horsey ass deal gowin’ on,

but I picked her cos she got real perky boobies an’ the kinda meaty thighs

I would wanna see standin’ their ground whenever cool shit is flyin’ off..)

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

<span class="sdata" title="13"></span> <span class="sdata" title="02, 2017"></span>

The Stars As A Valentine’s Day Smoochfest

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-06-02T09:21:34+00:00"></span>|Blendyjuicy, Love, Mother Cosmosis, Relationships|1 Comment

THE STARS AS A VALENTINE’S DAY SMOOCHFEST

Man, this is so frickin’ weird.

I was gonna spend the evenin’ at my desk typin’ out a special YOUR VALENTINE’S STARS kinda blog post, but right now I am sat squat in the cornera the lobby Googlin’ incinerated bean bag.

Why so?

Here’s the deal with bein’ a minxyditzy astrologer.

The real cool part.

Coupla times a week, Mother Cosmosis opens up a secret portal to her Celestial Vapors in my apartment an’ foreshadows the future by tossin’ crap through it — all too often while I am takin’ a pee.

Las’ week, she festooned me with baby bunnies as parta sum “Seer Special Offer” Spring Equinox Trailer deal, an’ it took me three days to detox the place.

That leveled up my chopstick skills, tellya.

Anyways, right now, I got alla the Zodiac rompin’ round upstairs, eyes fulla amour, skin flushed red with passion, an’ tinglydanglies gorgin’ up for action.

So to hell with the academic treatise I had planned.

All I gotta do is make notes on what jus’ happened

Saturday Night Chez Prinno B

Cool thing is, Aries bust through the portal first.

FFS what else is gonna happen?

I had my vacuum an’ pajamas on, so it took me by surprise.

An’ by “it”, I mean Aries itself.

Wouldn’t make no sense for Mother Cosmosista bowl me, say, six gals an’ six guys, cos that would mess up summa the potential romantic combinations.

Straight only for Fire an’ Air? Or mebbe gay only for Earth an’ Water? Nah — deal don’t work like that.

So the zodiacal spirits I got were kinda either/or stroke neither stroke both — gal one minute, guy the next, jus’ so they could max out on a strobe-style morphin’ sexuality ticket.

(Jus’ so’s you know.)

How Absolutely Bizarro!

Tell me ‘bout it.

First thing Aries did after I whacked the fucker with my suction pipe (a purely reflex action btw — I am not a habityool psychopath) wasta rifle through my smalls drawer for a paira hi octane knickoes — an’ switch out to a guy.

“Intrestin’,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

Aries grinned. “Something quick. I still gotta make the gym. Gonna scramble up on top of your bookcase and pounce on whoever is next through the portal.”

“Saves schemin’ for decades onlyta findya sweetheart dieda old age, like a Capricorn, I guess.”

(Ha! I got no problem bein’ snarky, but sumthin’ ‘bout Aries always stokes me up, an’ I blew my cool by gigglin’ at the end.)

Uh oh! Noises off from the bedroom!

I figured Taurus, cos she … he … it comes next in the Zodiac roster — only I got Cancer.

An’ bless her, she got chocolates an’ roses an’ some dumb Valentine’s card she made herself, an’ she was fluffin’ up the bed, makin’ evrythin’ warm an’ homely.

I pulled the door shut an’ indicated the closet. “Quick! You gotta hide!”

“You got someone in there?” hollered Aries, boundin’ down the corridor. “I demand immediate conquest!”

“Uhm … no,” I called, bundlin’ Cancer to safety. “It is my … crocodile.”

Aries’ scream shattered alla the glass in the window. “Nothing inspires me for hot action in the sack like risking my life to battle a dangerous throwback from the dinosaur age!”

Door flew open — gulp — as did my knickoes — *blush* — an’ Aries barely blinked before hurlin’ himself through the window’s glass dagger halo an’ out into …. well, let’s jus’ say I do not live on the ground floor.

Thing is, bein’ a Sajjo, I shoulda been straight after him, but I am not without sensitivity, an’ as Cancer’s whimpers blubbed from behind the closet door, I thoughta how crumpled my favo dragon kimono gonna be after she’d done squishin’ it with her fat frickin’ ass.

“Seems you’re something of an expert pipe-bender.” Voice from behind me was sexy, an’ I figured sum Leo was makin’ a flatterin’ pass — only it was Virgo, holdin’ out my vacuum.

“I can fix it, if you like,” he said, “and if you want some help tidying that germswamp you call a kitchen, I always travel with a set of brushes and three pints of assorted cleaning fluids.”

“Hey — I know you Virgo types got a reputation for bein’ super kind, an’ I got an anxious Cancer here in my closet could use a little TLC more’n my mountaina unwashed dishes, so couldya be a sweetie an’ mebbe mop up her tears while I change outta my pajamas?”

Gotta love a diligent Virgo. No one does No Problem better. Best thing, he seemed kinda pleased when Cancer crawled outta the closet, fully masculinoed up.

“I feel unsafe here,” said the crab-man. “Broken glass has ruined the romantic atmosphere, and I know the situation will only get worse. Would you escort me to a quiet coffee bar till Scorpio shows up? I’m very badly shaken.”

Thing is, there is a rubycon beyond which No Problem jus’ becomes Stoopid, but Virgo prolly ain’t seen it yet. Guy was so sweet — he took Cancer’s hand, made big time reassurin’ with his eyeballs, then transformed into a ravishin’ redhead before fixin’ up my vacuum, emptyin’ the dust bag, an’ headin’ off in searcha java.

Gotta mention — Aries jus’ whooshed past me on a skateboard, with Libra in pursuit, swingin’ a buncha bananas round her head.

But I will get to that part later.

Bring On The Evolutionarily Quirky Quadrupeds

Problem I had was alla the broken glass — an’ the lurkin’ suspicion that the firstborna Mother Cosmosis’s foreshadowy Valentine’s Zodiac specter-cum-polysexuals lay splattered on the sidewalk below.

Gotta tellya, we astrologers face stiff penalties for bustin’ stuff we get sent from anya the various Beyonds — only las’ Halloween sum stargazer from New York ate a whole buncha candy he shouldnta, an’ Mother Cosmosis turned onea his ears into a frickin’ carrot.

Luckily for Moi, Aquarius swung in through the window packin’ more cosplay gadgetry than Batman flauntin’ his techiest kit.

“Who’s the hot, naked, somersaulting gymnast guy?” it said, its momentary androgyny so exquisitely … hooman.

I rolled my eyes. “Aries.”

“Typical,” said Aquarius, shifting all Harry Styles. “So how’s it going with the luminous popcorn, the hilarious customized Cards Against Humanity deck — and the porcupine in the sack?”

My eyes switched sides. “What?”

“It’s a party, right? Gotta have some freaky party food, especially stuff makes your burps glow in the dark. And if we’re playing Humanity later, gotta have some new and risque cards to keep everyone on their toes. So I printed off a whole bunch of stuff from my shrink’s Skin Disease Encyclopaedia and made up some shit about buggering horses.”

“And the porcupine?”

Aquarius threw back his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve never played Feel The Prickly Mammal — for cash!”

“Listen,” I said, hand on the guy’s shoulder, “it is Valentine’s, so’ I figure people will wanna pair off an’ make with the smoochie.”

Water bearer rifled through the cell phones danglin’ by string from his belt for the one said BATTERY 2%, then tossed me a quizzical look. “What year is this?”

Prolly wouldn’ta mattered what in heck I’d said, but that’s when Leo pitched up an’ ignited my livin’ room in a balla flame.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

Leo’s plan for romance centered on a decorative 22-tier cake sizea The Rock an’ a theatrical fire-eatin’ routine set to a buncha Queen songs, an’ while sum folks (Moi included) mighta found such a spectacle impressive, Taurus was fuckin’ Scorpio on the sofa an’ did not take kindlyta havin’ the hairs seared offa her fanjo by sum showy clown in a swashbuckler outfit.

Aquarius fired off his water cannon, but nuthin’ could douse the flames, so evryone hadta dash out into the corridor before the emergent inferno took holda the synthetic bobblesa crap in my bean bag an’ poisoned the wholea the Earth’s atmosphere.

Coulda used Virgo’s return jus’ then, if only to talk Taurus down from stranglin’ Leo to death an’ snap the heels offa Scorpio’s weaponized boots, but when I opened up the elevator there was only Pisces — clutchin’ two empty wine bottles.

“I started early,” she drawled. “Where’s the smokes? I wanna get trashed.”

Any other situation, Pisces gets sidelined as the buildin’ goes up in flames, but tonight her random intervention was perfect.

First, Leo got to live as Taurus an’ Scorpio turned on one other.

(“She’s mine!”

“No — she’s mine, you filthy bull!”

“Hey — quit pullin’ my hair, you bitch.”

“Leo burned it off, remember? That’s your fuckin’ dick, you shapeshifter asshole!”)

Second, the big cat squared up to the plumesa smoke pourin’ from my apartment door.

“This is all my fault,” she said. “So let me be the one to put things right.”

I kinda expected her to dig out an extinguisher an’ brave the flames solo, but Pisces’ diaphanous evenin’ gown shimmered with the glowa elemental water from beyond time an’ space, an’ Leo siezed the initiative.

If you ever seen onea them magic shows where the magician rips a tablecloth from under a whole buncha cutlery an’ dinner plates without disturbin’ a thing, it was kinda that — only on this occasion, the glamorous assistant (Pisces) fainted insteada grinnin’ like she got the only teeth in the universe.

Gotta be glad I caught her an’ broke her fall.

She was lighter than a bird, smelleda pure exotica.

FFS, there goes Aries again. An’ Libra is stripped to the waist now…

Speculation An’ Prediction Gotta Be Certain, No Contradiction

Point about the Courageous Leo Emergency Epic (as Leo herself named it) is how it is gonna be turned into a movie.

Coupla flapsa Pisces’ evenin’ gown was is all it took to snuff the flames.

Thing is, Leo was real cool about evrythin’ — swallowed her pride an’ offerdta replace my sofa an’ shit, all while she shaped out into sumthin’ half Matt Damon, half Benedict Cumberbatch.

On another night, that mighta turned my heart, only we still had four signs left to show, an’ I figured on keepin’ my wits about me — no mean feat seein’ how I am such a ditz, tellya.

Mixin’ a cocktail as I cleared the smoke, I set my astrologer’s brainta work, see if I could predict what was comin’.

“Lemme see,” I muttered, throwin’ on jeans an’ a T, “we got Libra, Cappy, Gemini an’ Sajjo — unless Sajjo is covered by Moi to save on polysexual specter manifestation magicks. So that’s three, mebbe four, stillta come.”

Way I saw it, Libra an’ Gemini coulda made a workable matchup scenario — or a threesum if Aquarius stole himself away from my impossible coffee table puzzle — leavin’Cappy to drop last an’ shut up shop before stompin’ around stoically till mebbe the Summer cos nuthin’ worked out … again.

Only he showed first.

An’ he was fuckin’ drop dead.

Ear Muffs Rising, Midheaven Fulla Cacophony

“Hi,” said Cappy, cool an’ soft an’ denim-stickyin’. “Seems you’ve had a difficult night.”

I nodded like sum nervous rabbit. An’ giggled. Frickin’ shoot me.

“What say I treat you to dinner? And a movie? My limo is outside.”

Gotta tellya, Capricorn an’ Moi don’t see eyeta eye, ‘spesh when it comesta the blendyjuicy, but I felt weird, kinda impulsive an’ secure all at once, an’ I opened my mouth, ready to whisper YES, THANK YOU SO MUCH, when Gemini strolled in an’ said, “Woooooooooooow, what in hell kinda action has been going down here? No, wait! Don’t tell me! You burned your Valentine’s dinner? Am I right? Incinerated your finest meringue and boiled all your gravy to a carbonized slab? Fifty bucks says that was the deal. Ha! Reminds me of a night in Rome last year — or was it 2015? 2014? Hell, who cares? — a blissful time I spent with a beautiful stallion by the name of Luigi. He was hot on looks, big on romance, and pleasingly expansive on the slack-to-stiff ratio in the boxerbuster department. We took in the Colosseum, Mussolini’s Typewriter and Big Ben, then we danced the night away under the stars and … no, wait — that was London. And it was Simon. Or was it Benjamin? Aw, who cares? Don’t you just love clocks the size of skyscrapers? And those guys with the helmets look like huge furry grapes? Yanno, the ones escort the Queen of England back and forth to the Eiffel Tower? Or wherever?” Gemini quit blinkin’. “Hey, who are you guys anyways? And what was I just saying?”

“He’s in the frickin’ livin’ room,” I said. “Hopeya like porcupines.”

Strap Me To The Dinner Table With Filamentsa Purest Style

Gotta tellya, I had a cool, quality time with Cappy.

Evrythin’ was perfect, an’ he took real good carea me — even when his beard slithered up his face into a pert an’ pristine bob midway through the Vichyssoise.

As a Saj, I am usedta bein’ kinda slapdash, kinda whatever happens, but when romance is done proper, it really makesya wonder ifya might want that deal more often.

Anyways, after mains — sum weirdo fish I’d never hearda — we chatted about Virgo an’ Cancer, an’ both agreed the crab-man-gal-thing gonna be OK.

“Virgo won’t let her down,” said Cappy, an’ I figured she truly meant it, but there was sumthin’ in her eyes, like a flickera sadness. I dunno.

“That is Earth, I guess. Real reliable.” Ha! I was tryin’ to be empatheticalistic, but Taurus’ phantom butt cheeks revisited me momentarily as a ballistic blur over my napkin, an’ I splorfed out sumthin’ filthy made the waiter blush.

Kinda worked on Cappy though, an’ when she drove me home I felt so warm an’ secure I almost forgot she was merely a celestial whisper.

Cometh The Hour, Cometh The Asshole

I figured on sealin’ a nighta adventure by relaxin’ for an hour in the tub with mebbe Libra readin’ me poetry an’ strokin’ on my hair, but Gemini really had picked up on Aquarius’ porcupine deal, an’ the paira ‘em were locked in for the night, behavin’ abominably.

I walked back to the lobby. No Libra.

I took out my tab an’ started writin’ alla this down. No Libra.

Mebbe I was right about the threesum; mebbe Libra was up there makin’ out with her fellow airheads — under the gazea sum watchful spiny beast.

*Omc, it is so salacious an’ dirtya Moi, but I started thinkin’ all kindsa stuff.*

Never got too racy though, cos Aries roared inta the lobby doorway, sweat drippin’ from evry incha her ravaged clothes.

“What the fuck cunt fuck is going on?” she screamed, punchin’ hard at the walls. “I was on fire. And I ran all fucking night. For no one! Why does this always happen to me? What did I DO? What is so wrong about wanting to start shit up?

Tellya, I was scared. Aries in a paranoid rage is truly dangerous, an’ I hadta trust it would blow over, like it always kinda does.

What I did not expect was a flowery hairdo to end all flowery hairdos to come skippin’ in from outta the night with a frickin’ violin’.

“Please don’t be angry,” said Libra, pirouettin’ round the scarlet-faced monster by the wall. “Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Fiddly-dee, fiddly-doo, fiddly-dum.”

Aries snapped her fingers into a fist. “There IS no other person, you fucking asshole! That is the fucking point!

Libra danced sum more, played his strings sweeter. “Fiddly-dee. Fiddly-doo. Fiddly-dum.”

Gotta tellya, when I facepalm, most times it is cozza embarrassment, but right then, seein’ Aries ready to flare all terminal, I had fears for my own eyeballs.

“Fiddly-dah,” whispered Libra. He reached out a hand, moved gently in on Aries — an’ cupped her shakin’ body in a tender hug.

Ha!

Took the smarmy fucker mebbe 15 seconds tops.

Tellya, that is not romance, that is frickin’ art.

Gimme the replay, gimme a month to bone up, an’ there is still NO WAY I can do that.

Anyways, that was mebbe forty minutes ago, an’ shit has kinda developed since then.

Aries has gone from explodin’ like an ancient volcano to flopsyin’ out with alla the jollitya sum doe-eyed Disney bunny, an’ she is tearin’ about all over with Cap’n Frickin’ Karaoke, playin’ out goofy historical combats — mosta which’re derived from Shakespeare if I hear Libra right an’ am not confoosin’ shit with The Empire Strikes Back.

So, Yeah — Happy Valentine’s, Evryone

Best thing is, seems I was right about the Sajjo deal.

No need for Mother Cosmosis to foreshadow crap for Moi, cos I am here, an’ I got the gift.

So, listen — I gotta go party now.

Virgo jus’ texted to say she is comin’ back with sum special keys gonna get me into my apartment, so I guess it is mindfuck time for Moi till alla the Air guys get sucked off back through Mother Cosmosis’ Celestial Vaporhole.

An’ btw, turns out Cancer met up with Taurus in a pizza place along the way, an’ Scorpio is soberin’ Pisces up in the elevator with a viewta managin’ her career as an exotic dancer in Leo’s movie franchise.

Ha!

Was gonna start out this blog post with the line As an Aries, you are impulsive in love.

But true romance is kinda messy, I guess — an’ that is the fun part…