Horoscopes and Horrors

I'm generally skeptical, but I do have one unfortunate failure of critical belief: my little horoscope widget. This tiny piece of code on my Mac dashboard is on a level with the Times and the New Yorker when it comes to factual accuracy with me, due to one brilliant moment of prognostication a year ago. It correctly predicted that a coupling would result from my recent mixing of social spheres, and boom- my Guelph pal Ginger was going out with my McGill pal Oscar after meeting at my birthday party. It didn't predict that they would break up four months later, but then again, nobody- and no thing- is perfect.

Every so often I check it to see if it will repeat this eerie feat again, hopefully in some manner that is more beneficial. To me. In the Department of Sex. Which is on the same floor as the Department of In My Pants. Today's was rather cryptic. Apparently I was recently introduced to someone who can get things going. A potential benefactor. And if I don't remember their identity, then I should just wait until they pop back into my life, at which time the plan will become clear. The plan is to wander around campus, using the Terminator analysis-cam on everyone I see, trying to decide if I a) know them and b) could use them in some sort of plan. And only then c) what the hell their name is. So, if I walk into any posts or trees this is why.

From the Department of Horrors:
Pistache on Halloween. He went as Jimmy Buffett.