Fire and water magicks are both strong in Scorpio this week. Your immediate future will be filled with thick clouds of smoke, steam and damp ash.
You’ll finally find yourself in a relationship that may not end with you asking the other person if they’d like a bag for that.
The stars indicate that you are not a fierce and wily lynx, as you have long believed. Savage them with your cruel claws and razor-sharp teeth.
You’ll suffer high-pressure steam burns, two broken fingers and massive psychic trauma when you attempt to restore America’s faith in the democratic process.
You will receive a poorly written, hastily scrawled letter from Loretta Lynn claiming that you are still not woman enough to take her man.
Your grisly death beneath a pile of day-old cinnamon rolls will prove true one of Nostradamus’ least likely prophecies.
You will be forced to make a difficult decision when you discover that smoking the stuffing inside Beanie Babies gets you higher than hell.
Your attempt to buck the trends and do your own thing fails when you realize that trend-following is pretty much the only thing you’re good at.
Your brave decision to try a new bar in your neighborhood leads you to finally understand the meaning of the mysterious phrase “chicks with sticks.”
Add a zesty Mexican touch to your boring Sunday dinners. Invite a Mexican to your house, render him unconscious, and slip him into the soup.
Though your birthday falls into the correct range of dates, the stars say you are not actually an Aquarius. In fact, they are pretty sure you’re an asshole.
You will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life because of your strong belief that walking requires too much energy.
