fake horoscopes: march 28th-april 3rd
or the one where someone destroyed my laptop and i had to rewrite all of these from scratch on an ipad that i primarily bought to make memes during a manic episode in july of 2022
a list of things which, if i pause to think on them, inevitably make me less inclined to indulge my homicidal rage that bubbles up when other people’s carelessness and stupidity threatens my naturally serene, generous disposition:
sunflowers that grow to be six or ten feet tall. the idea of a child running through a field and then smiling at their cat with a gap toothed, baby teeth smile. not having any children of my own. sleeping in, because i do not have children. spending all my money on disco shows and organic fruit, because i do not have children. listening to music i actually want to listen to, 24/7, because i do not have children. the poetry of the wasp having to die for the fig to be born. fig and rose scented cologne. pomegranate molasses and pistachio & honey baklava. rolling green hills. calm water too deep to stand in, but preferably right at the exact height where i have to kick my feet to stand on my tippy toes and tilt my head back to keep my chin above water, so that i can tell you, as you stand/kick two or three feet away, through chattering teeth, the latest batshit text i received from someone in my family guilt tripping me for blocking my mother. language like “tippy toes.” language like “onomatopoeia.” language like “dictionary.” language like a love bite right on the x axis of your throat. language as in touch me. language as in pulling the sheets up over our heads and kissing underneath it. language, as in laughter. and as in touch me. and as in touch me again. touch me there. forget me not. love me like we are standing in the river and i am only two or three feet away and you only have to wiggle your way back to me to kiss me on the mouth.
see also: baby horses, kicking and caterwauling out in the dust. dusk. sunset bleeding red from the sky. living three blocks from the library. living three blocks from the fine art museum. the block feature on modern cell phones. burning down my enemy’s houses. (for legal reasons, that one is a joke.) guillotining billionaires and billionaire-friendly “democratically elected” officials, which for legal reasons is one hundred thousand percent serious. cold, clean drinking water. when you’re on the toilet with the door ninety-eight percent closed and a cat paw pops out thru the other 2% to say hi. living with cats and therefore learning to always keep the bathroom door at least 2% ajar for the express purpose of inviting cat paw hellos. hello, i love you, do you remember me, i remember you, what are you doing in there? do you want to hang out? do you miss me when i’m gone? do you snuggle into something that smells of me when i’m not there? can we cuddle? can we play the string game? can we cuddle? can we cuddle? can you scratch my head? can we cuddle?
a sparkling clean kitchen. reading nooks. the knowledge that i am ontologically correct and all my enemies and naysayers ontologically and irreversibly wrong. en
jambment. house music. house parties. birdhouses painted the color of bark. bark itself. the self, or it’s composition and malleability. astrology. good fiction. the sense of moral and mental superiority from not having tiktok or instagram on my phone. tin can telephone calls. the way the road looks at night under the street lamps after a day of heavy rain. the way the road looks late at night when i know you’re coming over, endless stretch of black tar alive and aglitter with possibility. storm drains. fresh bread. tomato season. blueberry season. citrus season. dogs that look like their owners, and owners that look like their dogs. patios and camping gear and wrap around porches. fireflies flashing like happy childhood. bats swooping down to catch a golf ball in their mouths. tire swings. wood chips.
can you feel that in the air? can’t you almost just taste it?
aries (march 21st-april 19th): there is nothing to write for someone who already thinks they know everything there is to know. regardless, i don’t know how to shut the fuck up, so you’re gonna get a horoscope anyways. let your hand go to the page before you declare yourself uninspired // unable to create. stop burying your old work under a mountain of regret. let the sound of wind chimes sing you to sleep. let the record play all the way until the end. you are building a life, whether you like it or not. what you do today is what you do forever.
✰ for aries — this stanza from “forfeiting my mystique” by kaveh akbar ✰
taurus (april 20th-may 20th): there is a ball of yarn in the middle of the labyrinth and a minotaur sitting outside playing candy crush on an iphone 10. your job is to get past the minotaur without getting impaled on his horns. this is not an invitation to flex your own horns or hard-headedness. he will kill you, and you will look stupid. befriend the reality that not everything is a challenge. when you stop trying so hard, things will fall into place naturally. or the minotaur will just kill you anyway. your move.
✰ for taurus — this segment of “talk” by noelle kocot ✰
gemini (may 21st-june 20th): an energetic game of cat’s cradle. a chess board. a used english-french dictionary with a pink cover. these are the detritus of your attempts to flee who you are and become someone better. this week, pack up everything that doesn’t have a home within your house and bundle it in an old handkerchief. bury it in an aspen grove in the middle of the woods, somewhere so nondescript you forget where you buried it the minute you walk out of the woods. carry a hatchet and a compass. your sense of direction, while better with age, still rivals that of a wobbly four-year-old.
✰ for gemini — “the shortest and sweetest of songs” by george macdonald ✰
cancer (june 21st-july 22nd): this week a cat will step out of a painting and ask you to show him where the nearest art store is. walk with him through the city streets, mindful of the leisurely pace a cat makes. look both ways before you cross the street. only when you fully grasp the smallness of another’s life will you understand the frailty of your own. wait outside while the cat goes in to pick out the supplies he needs. hold the door open for him as he leaves. offer to walk him where he needs to go next, even though you know he’ll politely decline. this is the work of building a meaningful life. try not to resent the facts of the human condition. the air is sweetest where you breathe it.
✰ for cancer — section 238, 239, and 240 from “bluets” by maggie nelson ✰
leo (july 23rd-august 22nd): they say march is in like a lion, out like a lamb, but what about those of us who aren’t able to transform quite as quickly? luckily, the circus is always hiring. get really good at jumping through hoops. learn to swallow a match unscathed and with a smile. card tricks and doves up your sleeve should make you a real star. and isn’t that what you want, leo? to shine so brightly your fire threatens to burn down the entire red and white striped tent? befriend some of the lamb-ier people in your life. a dove is a good party trick, but it’s an even better peace offering.
✰ for leo — a sentence from “having a coke with you” by frank o’hara ✰
virgo (august 23rd-september 22nd): this week your ability to balance a spreadsheet will do nothing to combat the existential dread and ennui gnawing at your computer cables. oh, wait, those are the rats. you have a rat infestation. the existential dread and ennui are gnawing on your entire sense of self. instead of setting traps or calling the exterminator, ask yourself what you can learn from the humble rat colony. perhaps it’s to stop leaving cheese out on your computer desk overnight. or maybe you’re meant to learn the art of using your teeth to help you get what you want. either way. you’ll figure out who you’re meant to be, eventually. your job is just to carry yourself to that point.
✰ for virgo — “how to not be a perfectionist” by molly brodak ✰
libra (september 23rd-ocobter 22nd): your intuition is especially keen this week, libra, if only you could access it under all the years of striving to be as close to a robot as possible. this week someone will ask you what the fuck your problem is. try to actually find an answer to their question. it could be your inability to espouse an actual opinion when you’re caught in the middle of two feuding friends. or it could be the fact that your spine is atrophied from lack of use. choose your words carefully when you respond. the fire in your belly when you bite your tongue is a clue. so is the robin’s egg left behind the back of the treehouse in another bird’s nest. wherever you run, there you are. make it home.
✰ for libra — “ode to hunger” by zeina hashem beck ✰
scorpio (october 23rd-november 21st): nobody is ever going to love you the way you think you need to be loved. luckily, the way you think you need to be loved and the way you actually need to be loved are so far apart from each other they might as well live on opposite poles. on one: teeth and blood and fur and ice skipping. on the other: penguins waddling and research tubes and an insatiable sense of skylust. it’s your job to determine which is which.
✰ for scorpio — “haiku” by ron padgett ✰
sagittarius (november 22nd-december 21st): a new coat calls to you from your favorite vintage store. your favorite barista calls out your name even when you’re not there in the hopes of magically making you so. the IRS calls to investigate you for tax fraud. the constant ringing in your ears is all these contradictory pulls. buy the coat but only after you’ve given another one away. tell the barista that actually, they’ve been pronouncing your name wrong this entire time and you’re allergic to dairy. ask the IRS how they got this number. and above all, get some fucking sleep. no trendy new woo woo wellness fad can compensate for a full eight hours.
✰ for sag — “awakening” by alicia suskin ostriker ✰
capricorn (december 22nd-january 20th): an arena full of lawyers and a stadium of fire eaters. to most people, this would be a nightmare; but to you it’s home sweet home. this week a bird will stop and ask for directions. direct it not to invest its life savings into the crypto market, as the entire bubble is due for another burst. also, only the intellectually lazy and/or most ethically dubious among us are interested in crypto. birds of a feather get scammed together. you’re better than the person you’ve been slogging along and pretending to be. nobody has the answers except you. and probably also whatever dostoyevsky you last read and abandoned halfway through. life is suffering, capricorn. wear it like a magic cape and head off to see the symphony anyways.
✰ for capricorn — “poem with evening coming on” by c.d. wright ✰
aquarius (january 21st-february 18th): they say when birds look into houses, what impossible worlds they must see. you are like a dog sticking its head out of the sunroof: you’re not quite sure what you’re seeing, or why we’re going so fast, but goddamn does the breeze feel nice. goddamn do you get to smell a whole lotta smells from up here. keep your nose clear and your face pointed to the sun. what other people think and feel for you will never be something you’re definitively able to figure out. your energy is better spent sniffing people’s heels and craning your neck to see everything that lies just beyond your own life. enjoy the ride, babe. god knows the car isn’t gonna stop anytime soon.
✰ for aquarius — “want” by alejandra pizarnik ✰
pisces (february 19th-march 20th): this week your ability to grow and evolve as a person is contingent on your capacity to sit still with the discomfort you feel anytime your false sense of reality is disturbed. you can choose to live in denial that the walls of your fairy tale castle are actually composed of the cardboard that comes on the inside of paper towel rolls, but the soonest sign of rain is still gonna hit you in the face regardless of if you pretend it won’t or not. attempt a reconciliation with the idea of objective truth. it’s nobody’s job to return your shopping cart but your own.
✰ and for pisces — these stanzas from “peonies” by mary oliver ✰
fun fact for everyone regardless of your star sign: somebody in my community spilled their pasta dinner all over my laptop while i was using the kava bar bathroom and then attempted to clean it up, failing to mention their spill to me until i had already plugged it in, thus frying the entire inside of my macbook.
even funnier fact: a paid subscription to this newsletter costs only $6.66 each month, which means, according to my (still living) iphone’s calculator math, if only one hundred and nineteen-point-nine-six-nine-nine-seven of you upgraded to the paid level, i could afford to pay for the entire $800 repair upfront.
even funnier fun fact: regardless of if you ever give me a dime or not, i do enjoy having you around and reading these.
thank you.
the manic pixie dream girl’s guide to existential angst is a sometimes free newsletter (and the occasional poem) from joelle schumacher. if you enjoy their work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, and/or subscribe to or write in to their advice column (but preferably and, instead of or).
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