I Don’t Care About Your Astrology

I Don't Care About Your Astrology

On October 4th 1991, I made my way into this world. Screaming at the tippy top of my baby lungs, my dad looked lovingly at my mom, who was too drugged to know if she had just delivered a baby or shit a literal brick. She turned to my dad, told him he was rather attractive and asked if he was single. He told her no, but he would still like to take her out on a date. She frowned, told him to please fuck off and promptly passed out.

The moral of the story above is that it’s funny to screw with women who have just given birth. Nowhere in that story do I, or any of the characters involved call out, “OCTOBER 4TH, SHE’S A LIBRA, OH THANK GOD SHE’S A LIBRA.” And it’s because no one cares.

According to this pile of shit astrology website I just Googled, Astrology can be defined as, “the study of the movements and relative positions of celestial bodies interpreted as having an influence on human affairs and the natural world.” By my definition, astrology is a product of a bunch of drunk Babylonians sitting together, staring up at the stars and plotting about how to fuck with the people of the future. But before you peg me as a non-believing, satan-loving atheist who’s soul is already condemned because I was born in the year of the sheep, hear me out.

The stars are giant flaming orbs of gas. They float in the dark vacuum we call outer space, which is probably just the never-ending swirl God’s toilet anyways. The stars dictate nothing – nor do they determine anything in your life. They do not care about you, your girlfriend, the guy you’re “talking to,” your doomed credit, or your poor excuse for an upwardly mobile career. They do not determine how big your dick is, what kind of drunk you are, or when you’ll lock eyes with the love of your life in a cute hole-in-the-wall café in central London trying to Snap the latte art on your cappuccino. They do not decide whether you get along with Scorpios, can’t stand Cancers, and can’t explain why you constantly get dumped by a long line of Libras.

They don’t care about anything, because they are giant flaming orbs of gas. Stars can’t even care about other stars for Christ’s sake. So let’s save ourselves an eye roll or seven and STFU about them. If you’re lazy, or sleazy, or easily angered, blame it on Obama or the Cincinnati Zoo like the rest of us. Because seriously, what’d the galaxy ever do to you?

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