Crystal Baws: September Horoscopes
Your trackie bottoms become so far stuck up your crack this month your hungry arse begins to digest polyester and your cells start to reconstitute the molecules as part of your body. By the start of October you will be the first human with a tracksuit for skin and zips for orifices.
A dozen dildos are enough for anyone. Why not donate a couple to your local donkey retirement home?
The spirit of your recently deceased Auntie Valerie attempts to contact you this month, arriving in her reincarnated form as a spider in your bath. She tries to give you a sign, to tell you everything is all right and not to grieve, but immediately upon noticing her spindly body constructing a web love heart you blow her away with a lighter and a can of Lynx deodorant.
You may be an arsehole, but you’re a very sensitive arsehole, gently twitching and pulsating with each horrible challenge life thrusts in your direction.
Beware the 47-year-old Glasgow grandma with a face like a painfully pasty Navaho elder, the one who’s always eyeing you in the queue at Farmfoods. She has a secret you definitely don’t want to know about.
This month, like every month, your thoughts are consumed by the drivel you read in Heat magazine, meticulously updating you on which orange, ape-foreheaded Neanderthal Jordan’s giving soapy tit wanks to at weekly junctures.
Quit smoking so much Amber Leaf, your coughing sounds like a train crashing into Brian Blessed.
Yes, you are ageing by the second, falling apart piece by piece. The creams aren’t working, are they? Wandering around the garden at night eating grubs you hope one of them contains a molecule of past-you from 10 years ago inside. Like a cannibalistic time traveller you forage ravenously for the dust of your previous lives. If only you’d saved all those delicious vacuum bags full of warm youth.
This September Azathoth the Blind Idiot God, spawned from the unholy nightmares of the void, enters your constellation. Run.
Have a shower. You smell like Bob Geldof’s steaming afterbirth.
You may think you were sat here yesterday but in fact that “place” is now just a meaningless co-ordinate in 4D space-time. You’re a collection of illusory matter in flux, collapsed from waves of probability.
Following the success of Robocop, government agencies make efficiency savings by reconstructing their dead employees as cyborg public servants. While initially you support the introduction of Robo-Fireman, a freak office accident finds you re-animated as an armoured Robo-Housing-Benefit-Adjudicator. Tormented by faded memories of the family you left behind, you spasm with flashbacks while stamping yet another Partner Income Declaration form.