The Weather

Astro Guide: February 10-14

Aquarius (21 January – 19 February)

You’ve walked by something like a million dogs in your life, and never once has one had the decency to say hello. This is all about to change. Soon, dogs will start to say hi to you. You’ve said hi to every dog you’ve ever passed in you entire life. It’s time for you to collect your debts. You’re going to be rich. Not monetarily. But rich nevertheless. So very, very, very rich.

 

Pisces (20 February – 20 March)

Your neck hurts, so do your legs, and so does your back. You suspect that you’ve been peeing slightly more than usual. You used to think that if you just switched shampoos, your dandruff would disappear on its own—all you had to do was psych it out, even if all you did was switch from Suave to Herbal Essences. Well, you did switch, and it’s still there. Now you can’t remember precisely how often you used to pee, but a casual search of the internet reveals that you’re clocking in way above average. Is it possible that not just something, but everything is wrong with you? It’s hard to say, Pisces. “Everything” would be a lot, but you shouldn’t rule it out.

 

Aries (21 March – 20 April)

All you need to fix your life permanently is something like three million dollars. You don’t know how to get it, but you believe you should be able to know how to get it, if you could just focus, and just think about things right, and just hang in there. Keep on focusing. Life is a waiting game, so the best thing to do is to wait intently. Wait like a champ. Wait as though your life depends on it. Otherwise, how will you keep from doing the most important thing you’ll never do?

 

Taurus (21 April – 21 May)

Friends, enemies, frenemies, nemds. You know a lot of people but you don’t know what to make of them. Sometimes they’re nice, sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they’re family, sometimes they’re strangers, and sometimes (though less and less frequently, it seems) they are Henny Youngman. Sometimes you just met them, sometimes you never met them but you nodded at each other in the crosswalk anyway. How to solve this riddle? How are there so many people alive in the world at the same time? The thing about numbers is that they go on forever, whereas this horoscope ends after the next sentence. Count your blessings first, and your friends second, because you, like most people, have only two hands.

 

Gemini (22 May – 21 June)

If only you played guitar, and knew how to sing, and had an awesome backyard with a fire pit, and knew all kinds of chicks, and had a cool dog, and had a nice kitchen, and maybe an ice-maker, and a nearby farmer’s market, and some better friends, and a more satisfying profession, and some cash, and your health, everything would be fine. Instead, this week you win five dollars on a scratch-off ticket that cost you five dollars. Breaking even is better than going broke, though. So at least you’ve got that.

 

Cancer (22 June – 22 July)

Self-pity is one of the worst things out there. So is smugness, moodiness, and being unreliable. So too is being boring, banking too much on your eccentricities, and overpromising. So is speaking your mind if what you say when you speak your mind manages to upset people. Exercising is OK so long as you don’t lord it over people. Driving a gas-guzzler is fine so long as you’re doing it to combat preciousness. Riding bikes in cities looks good on paper but in reality it spreads unease. Stay away from bikes, don’t shave against the grain, and don’t fall off any cliffs. Some advice is relevant, some is slightly less relevant—be sure to heed the difference between the two.

 

Leo (23 July – 22 August)

You’ll get the flu. You’ll fend it off, in time. You’ll have a bunch of leftover medicine. You’ll put the medicine in the bottom drawer, in case you get sick again. Part of you will kind of actually want to get sick again, now that you’ve got such a nice supply of medicine. Resist that temptation, Leo. It’s not worth it.

 

Virgo (23 August – 23 September)

This week, you’ll find your tongue has stopped working. It’s hanging all over the place. You tuck it into your mouth? It falls out. You put it in your pocket? Your pants get wet. You throw it over your shoulder? It gets dirty. You throw it in the river? The river dries up. You freeze it for later? You have a hole in your mouth. At least you can still read.

 

Libra (24 September – 23 October)

Air travel has always scared you. You always wonder if the window’s going to fly open. Or if the bathroom’s going to explode. Or if you’re going to have a wet dream while you’re asleep. This week, wear thick pants on airplanes. Extra protection never hurts.

 

Scorpio (24 October – 22 November)

Some say that gray hair is inevitable. Some say that dogs speak to cats. Some say that melons are just very large berries. Some say a torta is nothing but a Mexican sandwich. And some say a pina colada’s nothing but a gin fizz that smells like shampoo. But you, Scorpio, know not to believe such heresies.

 

Sagittarius (23 November – 21 December)

Your friend’s coming over. You have two beers. You’re drinking one of them now. He’s driving half an hour and he passed the liquor store fifteen minutes ago. You need him to go to the liquor store. You haven’t seen him in three months because he just had a baby. How rude is too rude? How much is too much to ask? You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, Sagittarius. One never knows what one never finds out.

 

Capricorn (22 December – 20 January)

Dig for gold often and everywhere. That’s the only way miners ever find anything. Science can only take you so far. Want to get to the bottom of something? Find something to get to the bottom of. Want to start digging? Find yourself a shovel. Worried about city regulations? Call the mayor, because he has a cell phone, and so do you. When you got your cell phone you were nervous that no one would ever call you. Call the mayor, Capricorn. He represents you. Take advantage of that.

 

Astro Guide appears every Monday in The Weather.

Tom Dibblee is Trop’s editor. His fiction has appeared in Glimmer Train and his nonfiction has appeared in Pacific Standard, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and the Point. He lives in Los Angeles.