The horoscope writer at Yahoo has gone off the deep end. So much so that I am thinking about writing a letter of concern to the folks at Yahoo. My favorite theory is that the normal horoscope writer left her position to start a psychic hotline and they've had to pawn off the responsibilities of the horoscopes onto the underwriter for the inspirational writing dude at Yahoo. Here is my horoscope for today:
It's hard to imagine you lacking imagination. Actually, it's impossible to imagine. So now, don't worry -- there's no need to imagine you lacking imagination, because you're so imaginative. You just won't have time for anything else (like imagining lacking imagination). You're fielding great ideas left and right, and the ones you like you're holding on to. You'll implement them all in good time. Yes, all in good time.
Here is my horoscope from yesterday:
There's something new up ahead, and you think you've gotten a glimpse of what it might be. Is it a new project? A new apartment? A new love? A new lease on life? New energy? A new sport? A new car? A used car with a new car smell, thanks to somebody's bright idea to sell a spray that smells like a new car? It could be exciting, whatever it is.
I'm not one of those people that directs their life from their horoscope and frankly, I'm concerned for the people that do. Read both of the above horoscopes and you'll find one thing in common, that they don't actually say anything. And they don't actually say anything worse than they normally don't actually say anything which is hard to imagine because you'd think that horoscopes should actually say things, important things, things that matter, things that direct, things that encourage, things that discourage, or things that look like they're encouraging but the subtext is that they're really discouraging. Needless to say, it's odd.
Fuck this noise. Stick to fortune cookies. So much judging, with a side of wontons.
ReplyDeleteOooooh I love fortune cookies. I actually like to eat them. Maybe I will have chinese food for lunch. . .
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