When astrological predictions are wrong.

19 Oct

I know. It’s like me telling you that the Easter Bunny is not only dead but that you ate him last night in a delicious pie.

This was yesterday’s astrological prediction:
Connect the dots and you’ll line up a passel of love prospects. You’ve got what it takes to get any social function going, so make sure you’re out there and in the mix. Even the line at the coffee shop holds potential.

Oh, how I beg to differ. The line at the daily coffee shop holds no such romantic potential*

One such lady without potential, let’s call her Scrubby McSkank, cut in front of me and a line of others to get her coffee. Showing that the mind truly is creative when starved of stimuli, she claimed “a line can be anywhere, not just where you are”. Such zen-like logic really does pave the way for society’s success.

Naturally, the earnestly useless barista almost curled into the foetal position and wept seeing two women begin to square off over java. It was at that moment the rodent and treadmill that is my feeble mind started moving and I realised “am I about to get into verbal argy bargy with some scrubber over coffee etiquette? Meh. I’m going to work.”

What lessons can we draw from this? That Amoir will not fight for coffee, won’t find love at the cafe and that the 1,000 monkeys trapped in the basement tapping out AI-esque spam also have a side gig writing astro predictions.

*Unless you count Pellegrini’s last night where I went for my weekly lasagne/latte/granita-fest where the chaps are always soft, complimentary and genial. Come on, who wouldn’t melt upon hearing the song of “latte forte per la bella donna” after placing your order? (Today’s other lesson: Amoir is a sucker for compliments, irrespective of the language.)

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