Crystal Baws: July 2012 Horoscopes
Through your Fisher Price binoculars you spot more UFOs. This time there are thousands of them, looking almost exactly like love heart balloons. You catalogue their appearance in your Big Book of UFOs and admire our visitors’ delirious array of craft, sometimes resembling seagulls or aeroplanes, at other times looking exactly like kites or clouds.
Working on your Theory of Anything, you manage to pull together the remote theories of crystal energy, the JFK assassination, 9/11, Pleiadian channelling and the construction of the pyramids by skinny grey aliens into one super-theory, the implications of which are staggeringly incorrect.
You are a very tall woman.
Worried that the CIA might be turning all your cats against you? You don’t need to strangle any more of them with piano wire, simply make them tinfoil hats to prevent the government’s instructions from penetrating their adorable skulls.
Like Leo’s ruling planet the Sun, you too are a dense, gassy giant who finds themselves being miscategorised by idiots.
In July your nightmares reach their apex, the intensity of the nightly low-frequency turbulence inside the dreamcatcher’s delicate web centre causes it to rupture. Now there’s nothing to halt evil turning your mind into a luxury hotel for demons.
The studied way you replicate the emotions and empathetic gestures of others somehow confirms that you’re not a psychopath.
You might be the laughing stock of the office wearing your full-body chemtrail MOPP suit, but you’ll get the last laugh, when they’re all dead and you’re sat in the office maniacally laughing until you run out of air.
After buying a 6-bed house on Skye to “get away from it all” the situation soon turns into a masturbation Gulag. You scratch tally marks into the walls as the tissues pile up, looking at your emaciated face in the DNA-encrusted mirror, hoping against hope that one day Allied troops will come and save you from yourself.
Single? That guy with the weird eye who’s been following you around for the last few days holds the key to a candle-lit weekend in an underground sex bunker.
Like the Elephant Man you have a heart of gold, but also a massive cranium filled with water.
Trying to top your neighbour’s romantic gesture of releasing thousands of love heart balloons for their anniversary, you procure the heart of a blue whale from a Norwegian fishmonger and drive it in a leaking Transit back to your girlfriend’s house. Rigging the heart up to the Transit’s battery in the garden, you sit astride it singing love songs on an acoustic guitar as it rhythmically pumps blood all over the sodden grass. Her tears say it all.