PLUTO AIN'T NO COOKIE MONSTER

It should mean something fantastic, transiting Jupiter being all buddy buddy with my natal Pluto at three degrees Libra in the second house. There aren't any cookies in the oven. The carnival was chased out of town by the shadow people. And San Antonio has become the new Seattle. Fucking bullshit rain. I expect a heroin and suicide epidemic soon. Will the music and art improve? One can only hope. And in the fifth house, which in my case is Capricorn, transiting Pluto is ass fucking my north node and vertex at sixteen degrees. Que paso? Oh the usual. Bullshit bills. Too many dirty clothes, not enough detergent. The wrong songs on the radio. Moths. Wolf spiders. Hobby Lobby is closed on Sunday. Buy your art supplies at Walmart, Dollar Tree, Valero. Go Dumpster diving. Make your own paint out of M.A.C. cosmetics and Vaseline. Unless your brain is queso you'll figure something out. But last night on the patio we smoked cigarettes and I smoked the last of the Cohiba and I drank the bottle of prosecco and a glass of grappa. And then in bed I said I wanted to puke and my man encouraged me to puke, told me to stick my finger down my throat like Amy Winehouse (Amy Winehouse is my reference my man has no idea who Amy Winehouse was) so I got down on my knees and stuck my finger down my throat and puked into the potty like Amy Winehouse. There goes the Campbell's Noodle O's! There goes the Ghirardelli bar! It was really cool and I felt better, got in bed and my man brought me a bowl of Smartfood white cheddar popcorn. The salt helps, he says. 

What do we talk about when we talk about love? I'm no better than the weather. I stole that from The Plimsouls. The rain will continue but someday a desert with only the occasional monsoon. Misti Velvet Rainwater. I live up to my name. "You're demanding," he said. I reminded myself of the "Jenny Says" song as I told him to turn out the lights and tickle my back. He tells me he loves me and I say NO COMPRENDE. We swap war stories only his are literal. He tells me things I don't recall from the King James bible. His voice. My God. I have to love a man's voice. I adore his. When he paints I don't blame him. When I try to draw Dana Plato as a teenager in a rollerskate t-shirt and it looks like shit I can only blame myself. 

You watch "November Rain" and "Don't Cry" and think,"Great fucking couple. Great fucking idea." Aquarius man. Leo woman. Something went wrong in between the songs and the pages of the 1994 Victoria's Secret catalog. I don't pretend to have that sort of thing figured out.