Greetings, my tiny puling pussies! Welcome to the madness of manic May. First cab off the rank is mischievous Mercury as he clatters into nitwit Gemini and canoodles obscenely with the aging bones of lugubrious Saturn. Thus, you will twitter and giggle with your idiot friends (both of them) til a nasty elderly person tells you to go away and play elsewhere. You engage in the usual witty riposte, such as 'sod off, wrinkly' but, as the god of sorrow and bad knees lurches forward once more, the pensioner moves from a pert rebuke to the more robust response of actual pursuit. Eek!
The old codger turns out to be a retired policeman and, as a New Moon comes in cloddish Taurus, the creature grabs you by the ear, drags you home and chastises you before your parents, criticising your conduct, your speech and, of course, your hair. Your family instanter join this assail upon your person, reading from a list of grievances accumulated over the years.
But, by all the gods alive and dead, what's this? Why, it's marauding Mars, battering his way into your odious sign. Thus, you rise up, spraying this carping assemblage with the fire of your ire. You rant, rave, smash expensive possessions and hurl soft fruit while it's still in the can. You have this critics' quorum ducking and diving in an eccentric dance of defensiveness until they flee through the doors or windows and into the street. By my sainted aunt, you're a pussy possessed and none can say thee nay.
A Full Moon glowers in evil Scorpio and you glower over those fled or fallen, standing victorious and vindicated. The great Sol Invicti then clatters drunkenly into nitwit Gemini and you decide to hold a fabulous party to celebrate your triumph. As mischievous Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you ring your friends only to find they give hasty excuses and cry off, seeming almost to snigger as they put the phone down. Ye gods and little fishes, it cannot be! Is this the party where nobody came! The flush of success begins to drain from your cheeks as you look at the ruins about you feeling, lonely, unsettled and increasingly nervous.
As the busy messenger slips his gears and moves into perverse while vamping Venus gropes grim Saturn, you feel a sudden attack of guilt, worrying that your parents will soon return. Thus, you begin cleaning the house, though it does take time to find the requisite implements and work out what one does with what.
Thus, we leave you wielding broom and vacuum, mop and bucket and the jolly old scrubbing brush. Eek! How menial! What has happened to your gorgeous life that it has come to this? And how will all the dust affect your styling mousse? For the answers to these and to all the other idiot questions you can think of, click here next time, my foolish hair-dressing vanities!
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