I see visions. Flashes. Snippets of your life. And like all visionaries, I simply report what I see. Sure, I’m blunt. Yes, I’m harsh. But, I’m a registered visionary, so you must trust me. You must accept all that I say as something that has happened, is happening right now, or will most definitely happen in the future. Trust my visions and you’ll become a better mother or daughter, sister or aunt, wife or best friend. You’ll be the woman you never thought you could be, only better.
Now, September is a dark month. The end of summer. The beginning of the great fall to winter. Sadness seizes most women during this time, but not you. My dear, you’ll be the one doing the seizing. You’ll seize this month with both hands. Yes! Grapple it by the neck, my love, for it’s the month that will change your life fooooreeeeevvvvveeer!
Understand, Leo, that it’s not that you’re fat—you just have big cheeks. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Leave that to your coworkers. They’ll call you “Hamster Squirrel Face” because you got big cheeks and you guide lots of mixed nuts up to your chattering teeth using both your hands—much like a hamster or squirrel would.
Stop crying all the time, Virg. What’s there to cry about? You think you got it worse than some impoverished mother living in a straw hut with fifteen kids? Get over yourself. And have you noticed when you cry, your daughter cries? She does whatever you do because she looks up to you. You’re setting a bad example. So stop shopping at Wet Seal, because your daughter’s only nine and is already dressing like early 2000s Christina Aguilera.
Libs, your husband doesn’t hate you—it just disgusts him how the both of you have become distorted through the years. Don’t resort to plastic surgery, though, because you’re better than that. Stick it out with your laugh lines and crows feet. Why? ’Cause ol’ Father Time is undefeated, that’s why. No matter what a doctor nips and tucks, Father Time will win in the end.
Accept yourself and you will be accepted, no matter how severely your body has been ravaged by time. Jessica Tandy was a very attractive older woman. Maybe, at thirty-nine, you can look like her when she was eighty-seven. Good luck.
Scorps, I see visions. Visions of you riding upon a white steed. You, with hair flailing across your face, canter through meadows and up majestic grassy hills. A broad-chested Spanish man named Horatio chases after you atop his black mare. You ride together. You laugh as you speed through the forest and past a creek. You reach a pond with lily pads that would arouse Monet, when suddenly, Horatio tackles you from your steed. Together, you plunge into the lavender-scented water, locked in a lovers embrace. His lips are soft, his skin, firm. Are you dreaming? No, it’s real. It’s September. The end of summer. And you’re in love with this man. This man named Horatio Fernando Venezuela. You feel his throbbing biceps and his thrusting torso. He’s an animal—your animal. The pond is warm with your activity. It’s so warm. It’s getting hot now. Your thighs are awash in hot water.
Horatio just peed in the pond.
Oh dear, it seems your mother-in-law, Irene, is at it again. Look at her, feeding your children biscuits in gravy. Watch now as she fills their mouths with frosted gummy worms, stuffing toffee and caramels in as fast as they can chew. They love it. They love how they’re getting pudgy and immobile. Just like their father. (Sigh.) Time for a divorce, Sagi.
It’s true, Capri, your husband makes Antonio Sabato Jr. look like a horse’s ass. He’s basically a God walking amongst mortals. Can’t really wrap my head around how you landed him. Right place, right time, huh? Lightning has to strike sometimes, I guess. Yeah, so, ummm …. your life is great and I have no advice to give. You’re future looks pristine, too, so … I guess just keep living your perfect life. You’re lucky to have him and coincidentally are also part of a millennium-old family tree in which every woman has landed a man much better than she is. Yes, I know he’s got a great personality, too, you sluttish little penguin, you. He’s divine. Yep, you sure hit the jackpot this time.
More visions. Visions of you, my Aquarius Princess—living your life three sheets to the wind. You’re out and about. Friends. Beers. Dudes. Guys. Greaseballs. Dancing. Loud. Music. Club. Stubble. Grease. Hair. Muscle. Butts. Torsos. Faces. Sloppy. Double. Vision. Blurry. Collapse. Smile. Laugh. Rise. More. Vodka. Gin. Screaming. Fighting. Yelling. Swearing. Crying. Hugging. Laughing. More. Gin. Vodka. Shots. Man. Blurry. Dreamboat. Dance. Laugh. Kiss. Hug. Taxi. Apartment. Home. Couch. Kiss. Kitchen. Kiss. Bathroom. Vomit. Lamb. Pita. Lentils. Olives. Tomatoes. Feta. Greek. Vomit. Man. Taxi. You. Home. Alone. Weeping. All. Night. Long.
A gloomy day is hard to deal with Pi, but you can beat it. I know firsthand. See, I haven’t always been so omniscient and happy. At one time, believe it or not, I was in a dark place—living in a one-bedroom apartment in the warehouse district of Cleveland with no job, two bucks in my pocket, and nothing to do but listen to Radiohead and Leonard Cohen albums.
Want to know what made me rise out of my funk? FRIED FOOTLONG HOTDOGS. OH MY GOD. They’re so good with a little relish and ketchup and cheese and chili. MY GOD. They’re worth smiling for, P.
Your workplace is killing your soul. That’s evident by your hour-long “staring into nothingness” sessions. And, your sudden episodes of crying that send you careening into the nearest bathroom stall. You’re in a tough spot because you have children to provide for and a reputation to uphold. But, your job is a monotonous disease eroding you from the inside out. You have to find a way to make the boring fun.
Solution: Marijuana, and lots of it. Right after you wake up, at lunchtime, and when you get off work. Do it and never look back.
This month, stop talking for like five minutes—if you can. Please. Hey, I know it’ll be hard for you—it’s a staple of yours to blather on and on about the dumbest, most nonsensical crap for hours on end, but no one cares about your hangnail. Nobody wants to hear about your lentil soup-induced digestive issues. Nobody wants your opinion on the War, Politics, or the Economy. You’re self-absorbed, wordy, and just a wee bit boring. Not a good combination. If you continue to talk before you think, your loyal pack of friends will declare mutiny and you’ll be out there at sea, all by yourself.
Sometimes you can learn more by just listening.
Gems, do you realize how beautiful you are? Your skin is smooth and radiant. Your lips are full and permanently pouty. Your booty … well, it’s in a class by itself. You’re fine. You’re more than fine. You’re smoking hot.
In fact, why are you even part of America’s workforce? Quit your job, dump or divorce the man in your life. You’re done contributing to society. Live every girl’s dream: run away with the circus. I see a trapeze in your very near future.
Our world is devoid of honor. People lie, cheat, and steal to get ahead. They’ll do anything for a little money, a little fame—anything to fuel their inescapable vanity. Which explains why you’re going to be on Big Brother 45 this month. It’s your time. Your time to backstab, gossip, and cry on national television. You do those things anyway, so why not get the pay and exposure you deserve, right?
Benji McSimmons is a Chicago-based writer who loves sweaty walks on the beach, strong bourbons, Michael Jackson, and the Faces of Death movie series. Benji has been gifted in divining the future since he was a wee lad; he knows now, for example, that he will be having a super burrito with steak in just a few hours.
The Visiting Visionary is a monthly column written by a different guest horoscopist each month. We will focus on a new topic every month so that our Visionary can foretell how it will affect each sign.
Read Last Month’s Visiting Visionary