Great antediluvian ducking stools, it's you, my fishy wastrels, flopping about the place in a damp and wretched manner, as usual. Last time we left, you were frozen with fear as mysterious gangster types arrived at your door whilst friends, the ones you invited to your 'special' party, fell into a collective drunken stupor, giving you no support at all in your travail.
So anxious was I to know what would occur for you, I have slept through the bulk of the month and only recently awoken, not in a very good mood, I might add. Still, I am Asperitus, the prophet of piffle and you are just a useless article. Thus, we will waste no further time in pleasant banter but proceed with prognostication of a vile and bitter sort. This is the month of jactitating July, my cream-faced loons! Attend me now and you shall learn of all its miseries!
Vamping Venus and grim Saturn joined in nasty congress at the outset, sharing the use of their unmentionable bits with narcotic Neptune, making mighty rumpy-pumpy in your solar twelfth house, an unsettling realm at the best of times but positively haunted and worm-ridden in light of these ghastly events. So it was that rough and vile fellows burst into your lounge but so fearful were you that, in your immobility, you were mistaken for a mannequin and largely ignored, though there were comments made on your appalling dress and your pathetic expression. However, the rude fellows were enraged by the very look of your friends and beat them senseless, though it should be noted that few blows were actually required. They robbed them and stripped the house of everything of value, consequent upon which it was put up for sale as a derelict property.
As the climate of fear increased with this roughhouse, your frozen state extended to the very heart and mind of you so that you could no longer remember why you were standing immobile before the window in a house filled with unconscious people as black cars sped away into the night. Further to this difficulty, you then began to wonder if you had ever been able to move. This line of thought (if such it can be called) soon led you to the notion that you were in fact a statue or a mannequin and had had no other kind of life before. You stared into the night, in that vague sort of way you have, hoping the scene before you would improve, as you didn't fancy looking at such a bleak landscape for the rest of your days, whatever the lifespan of a mannequin or statue may be. This in turn led to further mental meanderings, though it's only fair to say that I would rather floss my teeth with barbed wire than continue to recount them. Let us just say that your mind wandered and leave it at that.
As mischievous Mercury moved out of perverse reverse, your friends recovered consciousness (again a task requiring minimum effort) and made their way out, idly commenting on the new mannequin at the window, though several offered the view that the garments and expression were unnervingly plain. Thus, at the New Moon in odious Cancer, you had decided you were a mannequin and became obsessed with whether you were beautiful or not. As marauding Mars rammed the rude bit up cranky Chiron, there was a gun battle in the street as gangster fought gangster. Later, when the bloodbath was done, the day was memorially named the 'Bastille Day Massacre'. As vamping Venus slithered into anal Virgo, a plain-looking vegetarian scientist purchased the house and, on moving in, asked that the mannequin remain, as this lonely and obviously tasteless creature felt it to be beautiful. Think of it, my darling piscine types! Now you cannot speak or move, you have found the admiration you have always longed for. Worth a thought, that little conundrum!
As we come to the present, the great Sol Invicti sets himself to clatter and roll on drunkenly into lackwit Leo and you're finding the constraint of immobility somewhat testing, especially in relation to primary body functions. Averting the sneeze is also a matter of concern, especially in relation to its capacity for triggering the operation of the primary functions previously discussed. Great heavens, my little piscatorial things! What will you do, or not do, as the case may be in the matter of your immobility?
As marauding Mars, narcotic Neptune and grim Saturn all engage in unspeakable congress, you're struck by a dread realization. If you truly are a mannequin, why would you be concerned about body function? Gadzooks! Now there's a fly in the ointment! As a Full Moon comes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, you suddenly remember life before this frozen dream that has fast become a nightmare. You remember talking, moving, ingesting things (hmm), buying trinkets at the shop, purchasing gold pens and admiring the clock as it turned to twenty past two! But as you try to move and free yourself, you cannot. Eek! You're rooted to the spot and have become the very stuff of fantasy. You're a mannequin, a statue, a thing of frozen beauty, locked in an endless pose of neurotic wonderment, as if carved by some mad sculptor's hand. By my sainted aunt, what will you do? Or, more properly, what can you do, for motion is forbidden you? Will you never move again but be condemned to look on life from the hollow wastes of inaction? And would that make any difference to your life, if it were so?
But what's this? Great toddling trolls, someone enters the room. It is your admirer, a pathetic creature in a shabby dressing gown, looking longingly upon your frozen beauty and declaring undying love. Great barking bandicoots, fishy types! Mayhap this will be salvation. Will love break the hold of immobility? Will the two of you play Pygmalion and Galatea, acting out the timeless myth of classic love between the human and the inert (yourself, in this instance)? Will devotion free you from the freeze, free you to live, to love, to laugh and also free you to visit the nearest convenience, as you've been standing immobilized for weeks?
As I'm overcome with ennui and can write no more, you will have to click here next time and see if there is further drivel to follow upon the drivel you have read so far. Ave atque vale, my tear-stained fishy tragedies!