If you’ve been reading most of the horoscopes it may seem like everything is awful and that the stars never work in anybody’s favour. Or that I, the curator of this esteemed horoscope dispensary, am a right dick. Of the latter, it cannot be so; I write nothing. My method in obtaining your horoscopes is to take a large dose of peyote, travel to the celestial realm (the astral journey can be either physical or metaphysical; often I catch the regular shuttle-bus that leaves from the corpus callosum, but if too exhausted I do sometimes venture deep into the night in an out of body experience while my temporarily lifeless corpse relaxes in a hammock), have lunch with the subconscious mind of the universe and then be very quiet while I listen to the strange and esoteric utterances through which the stars communicate to each other and through which the future is divined with respect to where in the pattern of gravitational waves a soul was when it was born. 

As for the former, that is, that the stars never work in anybody’s favour; no. They don’t. Everything just does its thing and stuff happens. 

So I apologise if things seem a little bleak. If you feel you require one, do ask the nearest person to you for a hug. Tell them I sent you. It makes things better. It really does.