I'm not sure how it'll be any different from my horoscope, which I already don't pay any attention to every morning, especially last Thursday, when it read, "You have been clueless these last few weeks. Get a clue."
Here's what my birth month, August, supposedly reveals about me:
"Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in herself. Thirsty for praise. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts and music. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusting. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends."Loves to dream, OK. But observant? Hmn. Not so much. Clueless, I believe, is the word they're looking for.
And if they were shooting for accuracy, the description might have included, "Is not afraid to embarass herself."
Though actually, to be accurate, that would have been inaccurate, because I was shaking like a leaf when I asked Leif the Viking out, and now I'm so embarassed — not so much because of the rejection itself, although that can hardly be considered a boost to the ego, but because he also let me know, in not the gentlest of ways, though not unkindly either, and, truth be told, that's what I need sometimes, for someone to drop a house on my head, because, yeah, ok, I've been told I can't take a hint, and apparently this time the hint was, "I'm not interested," but because I have spent the last few weeks since Lana's birthday party entertaining the fantasy that he might want to go out with me, and in doing so was being clueless, and it's being informed that I have been clueless that's the humiliating part of this whole dorking down — that I don't know when I'll be able to look him in the eye again. I will, eventually, but not just yet, not tomorrow night, surely, and that's likely the next time I'll see him, because, as I've told you, he hangs around in my circle of friends.
Maybe tomorrow the good lord will take me away.
In the next story, the final installment in The Viking Trilogy, Postmodern Sass climbs out from under Dorothy's house and is just about done whining.