Friday, March 24, 2017

NEW MOON IN ARIES

Yes. The new moon will occur on 28 March 2017. Where will the new moon be? In the sky, yes, but specifically...the new moon will be located at seven degrees Aries. This means the new moon will be opposite my Pluto in Libra, quincunx my moon in Virgo, square my Mars in Capricorn and trine my Neptune in Sagittarius. That's all I know. I'm an amateur when it comes to astrology and several other things. But ya gotta admit...I try so fucking fucking HARD. That's my potent Mars at four degrees Capricorn trining the fuck out of my Virgo moon and ascendant, squaring my potent Pluto at three degrees Libra. Or maybe it's my Taurus MC squaring my Aquarius sun, trining my Jupiter in Capricorn in the fifth. It's all just energy, after all. What do I DO with it? Not much. I sleep. I eat. I breathe. I bathe. Sometimes I walk the treadmill. Sometimes I hula hoop. I wash dishes. I bake pizza. I bake cookies. I play with paint and scissors and my $200 Kodak. I write angry poems. I Chupacabra Disco even though I resent the fact that I have a non-paying audience. I've been giving it all away for free for years and that shit is getting quite old. I do require pesos. Some damn kind of compensation. The occasional compliment doesn't do much for my ego. Compliments are no kind of currency. But I'm hard to satisfy. Ask any of my exes! I'm getting bitter in my old age and I want to change that. I want to embrace the wondrous and the miraculous with dewy eyes and enthusiastic brazos. So. The adept astrologers ask What Are Your New Moon Intentions? What Do You Hope To Manifest?

I plan to use my considerable energy to do what I absolutely have no desire to do. Truth be told, I just want to hide in my ex-husband's brick house and tell my son Cougar and Sally stories and sleep and dream and play with paint and scissors and read my little books and promote my tits with stickers over the nipples at Instagram. I want to Tweet my OUCH to a non-paying audience. But that is not what the new moon in Aries is telling me to do. The new moon in Aries is telling me this, in James Brolin's voice:

Misti. Baby. You ain't no Streisand. I know you like to THINK you're a star. Maybe you are. But you aren't in Malibu. You're in San Antonio. Your Android is full of phantoms and ashes. You have no real friends. Your presence is not requested. How many people wished you a happy 44th birthday? How many people truly give a fuck if you LIVE or DIE? You can cry about it. You can kill yourself. You can crawl into the hole called your ex-husband's guest bedroom and fucking die. Or. You could look really fucking hard at your life. All the books you've written. All the energy and time you've put into a blog that gets about a thousand hits a day. All the selfies you've posted at your blog, Twitter and Instagram. All the love affairs that went nowhere. Great material for self-published books and stand-up routines on any available open mic. You've got twenty-five bucks and a cracker. Do you think it's enough to get you there? You've got to put on the big girl panties and deal. Do the opposite of what you desire. Get a fucking job. Get off disability. Bust your ass for forty hours a week like everybody else you know. There's no glamor. There's no glory. But there's a point A and a point Z and no man is gonna be your chauffeur. Drive thyself. I'm sorry your daddy didn't like you very much. Whipped your ass a few times, told you that you were stupid, left you when you were six. I'm sorry you were the misfit loner watching your sister and cousins get boyfriends and homecoming mums. I'm sorry it's been so hard for you to keep true friends and true love in your life. I'm extremely sorry that the one man you ever truly loved only wanted to fuck you a few times because he's still stuck on a woman he divorced in 1980something. I'm sorry he still owes you $400. You'll never get $400 from him. Forget the $400 and little red dress and Old Navy denim jacket and cubic zirconia ring from the Fingerhut catalog. Forget New Orleans. Forget Corpus Christi then Denver then Las Vegas. The Tahoe. God. Yes. The Tahoe. Chariot to The Stars. Buy your own fishing pole and bait. You have to be quiet to catch a fish. Good fucking luck.

(Gracias, Mr. Brolin. You know what's UP.)

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