this month by Nina Bitchin
The Jovian planets have a hangover, Antares is missing from the Scorpio constellation, and Jupiter is making out with all her friends. Our resident psychotic and stargazer, Nina Bitchin, is feeling horrible this month. She
hopes you are, too: here are your horriblescopes for March 2017.
If any of these horrorscopes have annoyed you, then my work here is done. There are no other disclaimers.
You’re a fish on a hook this month, flapping about for the water like a desperate vagina flaps on a desolate sandy shore of boring lovers. Next month will be better.
Air is very important. Breathe in, breathe out, relax, deep, long breaths. Then hate yourself for being a chainsmoker.
Hello Libra. Even though you might feel like a bird in a ribcage this month, the stars suggest that you can’t fly anyway so it’s probably for the best. Freedom would be wasted on you.
Self-expression is key. Perhaps you could separate anything that comes in a pair: socks, gloves, eyes. The possibilities are endless and singular.
If you feel on edge this month, then get a quieter toaster and staple feathered pillows to your front door to mute the people knocking on it.
To express your misery, take a friend by the hand, say something very cruel in a gentle tone, then criticize their grammar when they try to respond to you.
This month, you will be reminded that you are just a badly-paid extra in someone else’s story. However,
be proud of long, dead decorative twigs you proudly found in a bin on the way home and their practical use against a
strange man who followed you home.
Hello Leo. You may be pleased to hear that the 9th planet is real, and it is headed straight for us. That should ease
the pain of that 4-hour solo dance you did right before you sent naked photos to the tour manager of the Super Furry Animals.
As the superior star sign, you have the right to be the most miserable of all this month. You might wish to consider shaving a small t-section of your long hair on the left side of your head to prove that you’re still ‘young’. If you’re still young, you may wish to grow out your hair and buy a silk shirt to prove that you’re ‘mature’.
Scorpio, collector of bum cracks. Aslan told me that you must remind all poets you meet that: 1) they have nice teeth, 2) their sad poetry is painful to the people around them, and 3) aren’t they lucky to be surrounded by such lovely people who don’t tell them so. This we call the shit sandwich for poets.
So we meet again, scabby crabby. This month will be like the rogue bits of burnt cheese that fall off a tray-less home-cooked pizza. Embrace the futile crispy mess that used to be the thing you were going to enjoy.
You smell like old wee from a dog that was never loved.