Mercury ascendant in Leo indicates that your mother so fat she gots her own damn ZIP code.
You know, the stars are beginning to suspect that it is no longer possible for a competent person to be elected president of this nation.
An assassin from the future will attempt to prevent the birth of the next Hitler by materializing in your bedroom at a particularly awkward moment.
The ghost of Hemingway appears to you in a dream and explains for the last time that the old man was an old man, the sea was the sea, and the fish was just a fish.
We’re sorry. Last week’s prediction of “a night journey over water” should indeed have read “waterfall.” Best wishes for your speedy recovery.
One of your greatest problems is your inability to ignore oversimplified, arbitrary, and potentially unsound advice from dubious sources.
You are decidedly nonplussed when you receive the entire America Online corporation free in the mail this week.
The life’s work of poet Wallace Stevens will change you forever when it falls from the top shelf onto your head, paralyzing you from the neck down.
Your name will appear several times in the coroner’s report, smudged though it will be by tears of laughter and overenthusiastic highlighting.
You might have decided that you don’t believe in God, but that’s okay–He believes in Himself.
Job-related burnout can be tough, but keep in mind that you fulfill a necessary function. After all, those nurses aren’t going to strangle themselves.
Whatever you do this week will prove that Rip Torn was right about you.
