Don’t let other people influence your future. That’s what a vague and arbitrary set of cosmic indicators is for.
Running away from your problems will fail this week, as will climbing out of your problems’ reach and playing dead in hopes that your problems go away.
The stars indicate that you’ve really done it this time. I mean, just look around, for God’s sake. How did this even happen?
Your passionate lovemaking will wake up the neighbors this week, making it a lot harder for you to have sex with them.
All you’ll want for Christmas are your two front teeth, along with your four bottom incisors, the six molars at the back of your mouth, and whatever other bicuspids are missing.
You’re about to make one woman very happy, and hundreds of thousands of other women extremely relieved.
Your face will soon be on the cover of every newspaper in town, thanks to a rather gruesome printing-press accident.
They say that you’re going blind, that your vision is rapidly deteriorating, but don’t worry: They are just a coatrack and hat.
Frustration will be yours this week when an airliner spirals out of control and crashes into the ground every time you’re about to speak.
You’ll discover the secret of fire this week—namely that it can make your ex-wife pay for everything she’s done to you.
Lately it seems as though you’re running out of steam. Shovel more coal into your firebox to rotate the paddle wheel.
When given a choice between tuna salad or egg salad this week, go with the egg salad. Just trust the stars on this one.
