Saturday, July 27, 2002

Get Over Yourself:
A Quick Astrology Guide to Eliminating the Worst Things About Your Sign
Part One.

You are a Porsche Turbo in a Ford Escort world. Slow the fuck down, none of us can compute data as fast as you, and you'll just have to wait for the answers to all your urgent questions. You are not the boss of us, except for Grey Bird, who is the boss of my blog.
You lazy, hedonistic bastard! Get up. Turn off the Food Channel. Move away from the computer and throw out all those sentimental little scraps of paper, doodads and little reminders of losers you should have never dated to begin with. I know, I am a slothful, sickeningly sentimental Taurus.
You are not a chattering monkey trapped in a human suit. Stop all that brain twittering and verbal ruminating, and just sit still and do nothing for a few minutes. You're making all of us fucking nuts with all those wacky schemes of yours. Shhh! Be quiet and let us think!
Oh, boo hoo, snap out of it. Taurus Barbara Streisand was just kidding when she sang about "misty watercolor memories." Life is tough, suck it up and bake us a pie or rescue a kitten or puppy....or journal, but please don't make us read it.
The monarchy is fine, but you really aren't royalty. We dig your sexiness, the generous gifts and thoughtful gestures, but once in a while, you give the fucking backrub, damn it.
And don't argue about it, Zeddie and Suzy.
Hey, tightass, ever hear of having fun? Just have some, don't plan it out on a gridsheet, make lists about it or feel guilty about it. Just take those pants off, don't fold them and hang them up first, and try not to imagine God watching you fucking, getting drunk or sending in a payment one day late. Guilt is not your friend.

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