"Sagittarius
Thursday, November 21, 2002
No matter how well you have managed to hide your feelings behind a wall of feigned indifference, you won't be able to hide them much longer -- and nor should you want to. Once the sun moves into your birth sign tomorrow, you will be much more outgoing, much more like your own self and much more likely to tell others what you really think of them."
Today I was asked, "Are you still alive?" I faked it and said, "I sure am." I never fake it. Somehow I feel I'm allowed to fake it today, because tomorrow the truth must come out. Yes, even if it hurts. I've been waiting for tomorrow for at least a month, but this month has been an eternity.
Tomorrow is Nov. 22 — the first day of the rest of my life. It's completely cliche, but completely honest.
In the words on an infamous Italian, tomorrow "I must find another way."
Thursday, November 21, 2002
Friday, November 15, 2002
Scorpio hurts.
If you're a Sagittarius, then from Oct. 23 to Nov. 21, it feels like the universe is collapsing around you. The shit hits the fan. And then it bounces back at you, tenfold. It gets in your eye. Your tears sting. You become crazy. Nothing makes sense, all your thoughts are irrational. You are not yourself. You are better than this. But you doubt that. You might shoot for the stars, but the arrows take on lives of their own and rocket astray into all the wrong places. There's no winning.
Outside it's cold, it's dark, it's damp. The leaves leave. The sun hides. Your heart is hollow. There is that stinging pain. A sour taste. An acrid smell. A sad, empty loneliness that cannot be masked. There is no drink, no drug, no kiss that can cure the pain.
Will suffering through the madness and sorrow of Scorpio reward you with loving, warm peace? You pray for Nov. 22. Until then, you lose.
Thanks for playing.
Game Over.
If you're a Sagittarius, then from Oct. 23 to Nov. 21, it feels like the universe is collapsing around you. The shit hits the fan. And then it bounces back at you, tenfold. It gets in your eye. Your tears sting. You become crazy. Nothing makes sense, all your thoughts are irrational. You are not yourself. You are better than this. But you doubt that. You might shoot for the stars, but the arrows take on lives of their own and rocket astray into all the wrong places. There's no winning.
Outside it's cold, it's dark, it's damp. The leaves leave. The sun hides. Your heart is hollow. There is that stinging pain. A sour taste. An acrid smell. A sad, empty loneliness that cannot be masked. There is no drink, no drug, no kiss that can cure the pain.
Will suffering through the madness and sorrow of Scorpio reward you with loving, warm peace? You pray for Nov. 22. Until then, you lose.
Thanks for playing.
Game Over.
Monday, November 04, 2002
You gotta hate the casino. The creepy oldies wheel up to the Wheel of Fortune machines and plug themselves in. They feed the machines with Bens and more Bens and push the MAX BET button as the CREDITS dwindle down... 562... 559... 556.. and so on. It's so sad. "Where are their grandchildren?" Amy asks.
But you gotta love the casino because scaring the creepy oldies rocks the house. We get good and toasted, all before 1:30 a.m., of course, and proceed to blow quarter after quarter in the pretty blinking boxes. Double Diamonds. Lucky Sevens. And the coyote (yeah, I know it's really a wolf) from my scary nightmare appears to me at the casino. He points to the machines in The Land of the Lost Tribes, and I play. And I lose. Amy punches the machines when we lose. And Amy and I get yelled at. "Don't you know this is the NO SMOKING area?" she says, barely turning away from dumping more quarters into the machine. Then Phil throws three quarters into the machine and then throws three right into the garbage. Oh, the horror! Not really. We discover the game show row of bleeping wonders and play video Hollywood Squares. "Yay, Gilbert Gottfried," Amy yells. "Yay, Bruce Vallanch," I yell. One by one, the little umbillical corded oldies look up from their Wheel of Fortune machines and glare. We laugh at them, but it's 2:30 a.m., and it's probably not nice. We drive away the little man on the corner machine. "YEAH, HOLLYWOOD SQUARES!!" We take our quarters and run, leaving trails of cheap cigs in our path.
But you gotta love the casino because scaring the creepy oldies rocks the house. We get good and toasted, all before 1:30 a.m., of course, and proceed to blow quarter after quarter in the pretty blinking boxes. Double Diamonds. Lucky Sevens. And the coyote (yeah, I know it's really a wolf) from my scary nightmare appears to me at the casino. He points to the machines in The Land of the Lost Tribes, and I play. And I lose. Amy punches the machines when we lose. And Amy and I get yelled at. "Don't you know this is the NO SMOKING area?" she says, barely turning away from dumping more quarters into the machine. Then Phil throws three quarters into the machine and then throws three right into the garbage. Oh, the horror! Not really. We discover the game show row of bleeping wonders and play video Hollywood Squares. "Yay, Gilbert Gottfried," Amy yells. "Yay, Bruce Vallanch," I yell. One by one, the little umbillical corded oldies look up from their Wheel of Fortune machines and glare. We laugh at them, but it's 2:30 a.m., and it's probably not nice. We drive away the little man on the corner machine. "YEAH, HOLLYWOOD SQUARES!!" We take our quarters and run, leaving trails of cheap cigs in our path.
