Great galumphing galoshes and rain-filled heavens, it's you my saucy trollops! No doubt you too feel a strong response on this, the occasion of the renewal of our communications. 'Nausea' is the word that springs to my mind, but that may simply be a hangover from too many nights spent drinking with Jean Paul Sartre. And, as I have no interest whatever in knowing what you feel about anything at all, I suspect our best course is to proceed with the prognostications of the vile and bitter sort, pertaining to malevolent May in this instance. Should we not heed the urgency of the moment, the month will be over and all the effort it took me to get out of bed will have been entirely wasted.
As you will no doubt recall, I was unable to rise for the customary vitriol in awful April, due to a nasty attack of creeping ennui that I was unable to shake off, even with a doubling of my prescription strength and a rather innovative application of the lovely silver tube. However, I will now endeavour to catch you up with recent events so that we may get back on track in preparation for the long road ahead, a journey that will be both tortuous and torturous for all concerned. It would even be hard for Jean Paul Sartre, a fellow most practiced at personal misery, bitterness and depression.
This month began with a ghastly Full Moon in evil Scorpio. Thus, the atmosphere in your career sector would have been rife with tension, erotic or fiscal. Power struggles of a nasty or underhand nature would have erupted, as you boldly tested yourself against those in authority, thus adding another pathetic personal failure to the list you have acquired so far. As grim Saturn, the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury engaged in tripartite rumpy-pumpy, your home life would have turned to misery as well. You will have suffered the interference of aged or depressing persons, sat about waiting while the housekeeper finally made your bed so you could go back to sleep or had a Mexican standoff with a partner or family member over toothpaste tube squeezing or any of those other little personal habits whose practice can reduce an apparently normal household to the blood-soaked scene of a homicide in the blink of an eye. You will have argued with children or had an illicit affair with a friend when no one was looking.
As vamping Venus slithered into slimy Cancer, you will have gone into business with a family member, selling 'I can't believe it's not seafood' or pocket 'cosmetic surgery' kits for busy office workers. However, as mischievous Mercury groped the private parts of narcotic Neptune then moved to nitwit Gemini, you will have fallen out with your relative, left the business and returned to your first great love, trying to be successful so you can surround yourself with idiot friends. Thus, you decided to write a new musical entitled DISCO NUNS GO GENDER BENDING. Marauding Mars huffed and puffed his way through a rapid growth spurt with dark Pluto and you bullied various friends and associates into giving you money so that you could stage this odious piece of drivel. As mischievous Mercury lurched in and out of several lascivious undertakings that ended in an unspeakable, groping encounter with Uranus, the dribbling god of idiots, you lost some friends while you contractually obliged yourself to others and were transformed from an arrogant nitwit that sold 'I can't believe it's not seafood' to an arrogant nitwit that sells 'I can't believe it's not written by a loony'. Thus, you became a theatrical entrepreneur that, in the finest traditions of the business, talked with confident pomposity and dressed the same way.
All this now congeals into a hardened state that is your fate as the great Sol Invicti clatters drunkenly into nitwit Gemini, rolling us back to the present. Thus, we shall quickly imbibe of a few genuine prognostications, otherwise the month will be over and we'll be back to square one. As mischievous Mercury gropes the nether regions of dark Pluto, you cheerfully slap investors on the back at a party while silently cursing them for the extortionate interest rates they're charging you. As the busy messenger slides on into slimy Cancer while jolly Jupiter and Uranus the idiot god rampage through some roistering rumpy-pumpy, you work on the script, dreaming of unparalleled success and a thousand friends to praise you for having it.
But is success all it's cracked up to be, as the pilot said while flying upside down? Click here next time and see what the insane gods have in store for you, my wittering airheads. Ave!
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