White Magic For Lovers

27 Aug

When I’m in love, I don’t read my horoscope. Obviously because the universe has provided me everything I need and I’m happy, so why even bother looking up or tempting fate.

I am not in love.

At night lately I’ve been dealing out 3 tarot cards and scouring them (plus two books to help me decode) for my past, present, and future. I hold the cards over my heart after I shuffle them in an effort to, I don’t know, sync them up with my beat.

I read my extended, $4.99 a month horoscope and then pass it on to my friend Rachelle, who was born a mere 24 hours after me. We celebrate our birthdays together every year and together we also lament that Astrologer Susan Miller has been telling us we’re going to get pregnant every month for years. Which, I mean. We could get pregnant each month. Technically.

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in Jesus. The closest I get to a religion is this frantic shuffling and dialing and wondering, when the future is uncertain, if there is any way I can divine that I am going to be okay.

But I know, in my greedy secret heart, that the only way things are going to be okay is if I make them that way. That the only signs I’m going to find are ones I have painted and placed upon the path I choose. And it’s a real drag. I want prayers, potions. I want grand signs in the sky that I am being looked out for, that I am special to someone who is very, very wise.

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