I hear you’re in retrograde, or some shit. As someone who isn’t particularly airy-fairy (excluding that period 1993-2000 where I thought if I practiced hard enough I could communicate with the dead, metitate to a levitation situation, and could astral project into a coloured aura wonderland), I don’t really pay much mind to astrology or whatever. Astronomy is fine, Astrophysics even better. Astrology? Mmm, not so much.
But every now and then I appear to go batshit crazy. I have zero patience, I hate everybody, I can’t get anything right, and everyone seems to have graduated with first-class honours in Assholery and General Hatred. It’s right at the moment where I think WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? when someone innocently mentions you are apparently going backwards instead of forwards and fucking shit up for everyone on Earth.
I haven’t crunched the numbers (mostly because I’m frightened of them, and I did enough of that when I studied statistics at university), but it appears significantly correlated that every time I feel as though I’m going to throat-punch the next twat who feels it’s their business to bring others down, or I fail at every single thing I ever attempt to make, that you are having a hissy fit. I’m usually a fairly zen person, I cruise about living and letting live and being reasonably successful in kitchen-related activities. But this week I’ve lost the ability to be patient and I apparently can’t cook to save myself. I ruined TWO batches of salted caramel sauce, failed Anzac biscuits, then accidentally burned to charcoal lumps of blackened hate said Anzac biscuits when I turned the oven on and didn’t realise they were still in there. I made Dad Down Under’s Black Pepper Tofu with Jasmine Rice so salty that only a man with a mouth of steel could actually tolerate it, and the cinnamon-raisin scrolls I’ve made for today’s ProBlogger strategy meeting are like little brown-sugar-glazed hockey pucks.
Mercury, I’m pissed. I hear you’re going to be fannying about backwards for another two weeks, and I’m not sure I’m going to get out of this alive. Please sort your shit out.
Boiling Pit of Rage,