Hooray to you, tragic bottom types! How is everything in your undergarments these days? No! For pity's sake don't reply! Even I, in my fullness of irritation, would find an honest answer difficult to bear, given that you could recognize such a thing were you to meet it in a café for a latte.
We left you last time, wandering bereft, enraged and seething with a wild, frightening despair. As usual, all your grand dreams of love had gone awry, leaving you to the solitude of a desolate backwater, known to neither man nor beast and unnamed on any map. And how will you be this time? Why, let us consult with the vile and bitter prognostications for savage September, which I believe is the current month, given that I'm up to the ninth knot in my handkerchief.
Grim proceedings unfold from the very first. Mischievous Mercury conjugates unseemly verbs with the great Sol Invicti, cavorting in anal Virgo (eek) and your solar twelfth house. Thus the odious world of your inner mind is beset with carping, critical voices, both imaginary and remembered. You stumble up hill and down dale, haunted by all those that have taken your name in vain, thought ill of you or criticized your magnificent buttocks or the colour of your valance. Quite a long list there, so you may be wandering in delirium for some considerable time! Your body and spirit are wracked with the fury of remembered assaults and unwarranted attacks on your person. Betrayed and degraded by heedless parents, scheming co-workers, false lovers and angry strangers! These memories drive you to such a fury that, as mischievous Mercury grapples with Uranus, the idiot god, you fall and stub your finger or your toe or both at once. Eek! I hope you haven't broken a nail!
As the great Sol Invicti then follows in the footsteps of the lascivious messenger, groping the idiot god's private parts, you fall into a wet patch of earth and dull the highlights in your stylish outfit. Egad! I trust no one from the paparazzi will be about to photograph you 'infra dig', caught out by one of nature's little tricks. How humiliating that would be! Vamping Venus then grinds her evil passage (eek) into anal Virgo and all your efforts to clean the offending material only make things worse.
Oh shriek and double shriek! How often does that happen! And, to top it off, as a Full Moon in snivelling Pisces brings a Lunar Eclipse to your solar sixth house, you stumble and fall into a muddy pool then lie there, wretchedly thrashing and weeping in an histrionic manner, most befitting to a bombastic thespian and ham.
But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes! It's marauding Mars, barreling belligerently into your own appalling sign! You instanter rise from this throne of muddy dampness and roar in rage at Heaven! How dare the cosmic wheels roll over your helpless and hapless person in this callous, uncaring manner! But then the mischievous messenger invades the private parts of dark Pluto, god of the underworld, and the carping voices in your head rage again, bidding you be silent under the constraint of their sneer of cold command. You fall back into the mud. Ugh! But then the busy messenger follows the psychotic war god into your sign and you rise again, crying that you will not be silenced. Incidentally, arguments with yourself are a common practice with your ghastly sign and a most satisfying form of social intercourse, given that everyone else avoids you. What follows is a ballet of thrusting erection and depressing detumescence, as you rise and fall in the mud, driven by your own belligerent utterances then cowed by the inner voices that undo this newfound courage. Jolly Jupiter rogers the living daylights out of narcotic Neptune and we find you depleted, exhausted, broke and with no shred of moral value or human decency remaining, even in the darkest corners of your demented mind.
A New Moon comes in vexatious Virgo, bringing a Solar Eclipse to the hideous confines of your house of hidden enemies and self-undoing. Eek! This is the solar twelfth house, an odious realm wherein dwell the horrors of the unseemly, the insane and the unsanitary. And unsanitary you are, certes! Thrashing about in the filth and mud of your maudlin misery has made you like unto a wild creature, the mad person of the woods. Or, at least, it does so until the ingress of ghastly planets into your appalling sign, whereupon you go home, clean yourself up, put on fresh clothes and go out for a beauty treatment and a latte with your idiot friends (both of them).
Click here next time for further tales of your wretched existence. While the world yawns with excruciating boredom and before I succumb to terminal ennui, I bid you farewell, my overdressed bottom types!
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