There is nothing more general on this earth than a horoscope. Nix the zodiac sign subhead, keep the predictions and just about anyone can fit the bill.
According to Cosmopolitan.com, my super spicy horoscope for the week is as follows: “This Wednesday, your ruling planet Mars collides with an innovative but disruptive energy, which might inspire you to speak your truth. It’ll be messy and vulnerable, but the universe firmly supports you being authentic. On Valentine’s Day, you want luxury, indulgence and dependability. Align with it personally or romantically, and watch the magic happen!”
I see it as this Wednesday, the big red ball in the sky is going to wreak havoc on your life and make you spew words better left unsaid in a fit of rage. But wait, once Valentine’s Day hits, you will have high expectations and demand endless affection, if you’re not a lonely melon that is.
Horoscopes have the capacity to make me roll my eyes yet remain fearful all at once. As a strong believer in karma and a paranoid millennial, the horoscope is to a Gen Xer what the chainmail promising bad luck for seven years is to your fourth-grade self with a prepaid Virgin Mobile phone.
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Just when you thought you were having a good day, your horoscope for the week lets you know that you may or may not get the worst news of your life, not unlike those pesky Twitter memes that constantly remind us of our eventual demise if we don’t retweet them in five seconds or less.
What happened to thinking for one’s self? Horoscopes have probably run the lives of people everywhere since the gullible age of 13. Like a lab rat, the hopeful horoscope first-timer becomes accustomed to the manipulative situation they have been put in, seemingly by choice but most definitely by good advertising. The lab rat has its cheese and the horoscope first-timer has astrological terminology and a butt load of ignorance.
The horoscope first-timer becomes enthralled with phrases like “Mercury is in retrograde” and “Geminis, expect a ham sandwich for lunch on Friday,” only to be left with 5,000 and one interpretations, all misconstrued in his or her own mind.
Is Mercury really in retrograde? Is the ham sandwich made out of real ham? Because, like, you’re totally a vegetarian. Is it on wheat or white bread? What if the ham sandwich gives you food poisoning? What does it all mean?
My horoscope said expect the unexpected but I definitely wasn’t thinking about wind. Freak gale came and wiped out two of our tents, knocked down trees, and cut our power for like 20 minutes. It rained real hard for a second and now it’s completely clear lol
— Ororo MonTaj ⚡️ (@so_tabo_o) February 12, 2019
Horoscopes have one sole purpose and that is to keep readers on their toes, searching for meaning where there absolutely is none. The horoscope writer isn’t some spooky lady in a sketchy New York City apartment with tarot cards and a crystal ball. Horoscopes are written by the average person, most likely a college graduate who sits at their desk in a corporate office trying to come up with hum-drum generalizations to suit the masses.
Regardless of one’s stance on horoscopes, they are entirely essential to the vitality of this generation. Without them, we lack depth and the ability to see the bigger picture. Who knows what would happen to us if we never tried to let the pages of a magazine define our love lives through supremely vague metaphors and mumbo jumbo. Perhaps we would never know our own personality traits, or that Capricorns and Pisces do not mix.
