Everyone in Prospect Park is pretending they’re down to earth, but I can see them white knuckling leisure. I am the only cat that can truly experience joy. I’m old enough to remember when Chloe Sevigny moved to Prospect Park West for like a year before moving back to Manhattan (it wasn’t that long ago). I refuse to take the time to add an umlaut to her name. I will not bend to the tyranny of an It Girl Umlaut. No more manic pixie umlauts. Germany is not a good look right now. I never fell for “Berlin.” I don’t believe in ghosts and I don’t particularly respond to leather or pee. Erotically, I mean. If you’re going to be curt, dazzle me with your sensuality. As far as I’m concerned, Maria was never a problem. I know. That’s Austria. No need to be a nerd about it.
I’m grateful to be more aware of my unconscious, but I think maybe I was better off when I thought dreams were more accidental, or belonged to someone else. I liked being severed. Now when I wake up from a nightmare, I take it personally. Who was that for? I used to laugh. Now I know it’s for me, which is its own kind of nightmare, but I guess it’s better to know that than outsource it to something more woo woo. I used to love astrology, but I don’t know if it brings me closer or further away from my desire. For me, it could feel like a convenient placeholder for actually encountering myself. “I’m an emotional person,” I’d think. “I like to chat during the movie because this or that planet’s in Gemini.” But at some point, isn’t that sort of Calvinist? At some point, you have to say, let’s not try to force The Isabelle Huppert Inside to do Internal Family Systems. She wouldn’t like it. Let The Isabelle Huppert Inside out to play. Take down the invisible fence. She’s an outdoor cat. She’ll bring home a dead bird. Thank her for it.
Ruggable texts me too much, but I can’t bring myself to unsubscribe. What if—despite the fact that I’ve never opened one of the links they send me—I opened a link and was delivered the most perfect rug? I like the way the vibration of my phone feels, even if it’s just from Ruggable. It’s these moments that remind you that you are a human, and that rugs are not only available, but ruggable.
In lieu of actual astrological calculations, I’m gonna do some associative horoscopes for the week ahead.
Aries: Mushroom coffee isn’t gonna help, but it’s definitely something to talk about, if all else fails.
Taurus: If you’re not careful, you could end up the victim of a skincare MLM.
Gemini: Stop listening to Sabrina Carpenter. You’re 36 years old.
Cancer: Yes. Bisous.
Leo: Try repeating a phrase over and over in a conversation, as if you’re a skipping record, a la Sutton Stracke. It will unlock your magnetism and bring a bevy of unexpected rewards.
Virgo: There’s someone you went to middle school with at the Uniqlo at Atlantic Terminal right now. They are opting to have their receipt emailed because they fear touching the physical receipt. Don’t worry. It won’t have any bearing on your life, but it is happening.
Libra: You are going to be an incredibly accomplished figure skater in your next life. You will win so many awards, but be careful about your cholesterol.
Scorpio: Food poisoning imminent.
Sagittarius: Release yourself into dance and let it change your relationship, for better or worse.
Capricorn: You have been saying a common idiom completely wrong your entire life, and people notice. It’s cost you more than you’d expect.
Aquarius: Buy a lottery ticket, and give it to your wealthiest friend. If they win, Venmo request them for the winnings, plus interest.
Pisces: In my dream, I was friendly with Elaine Stritch. What do you make of that?
Okay, I just want to say that I am still available to give advice if you need it. So I’ll add a button to message me. It will be anonymous. Or I will see that it’s you, but if I answer it, I won’t reveal your identity. But I will always know.
I have to go. My ride’s here:
