I'm visiting Guelph, so there I am in the bedroom of my childhood home. I think the last life plan I generated in that room ended with me becoming a Russian-speaking economist in Hermes scarves. Well, shoot for the moon, because even if you miss you'll land among the stars... or commuting 1.5 hours to Mississauga in H&M. And then there's my personal life, where every good decision I think I'm making becomes regrettable 24 hours later.
So I did the mature, adult thing. I engaged in a period of sober and meaningful self-reflection. Well, actually, I shuffled a deck of tarot cards. My skills in the paranormal remain as dormant as ever though - really, with three cats I might as well have acquired a control of magic along with the brain parasites - since the whole spread was hilariously inaccurate. Apparently, my insomnia is really a period of pleasant reflection, as I gaze back contentedly at the hard work that brought me here. Things only got more accurate near the end of my reading, when I found out that my current course would bring me pain, suffering and misery.
On that bright note, I decided to try astrology next. My good friend Caroline is a firm believer in the starry arts, and I'd recently read an article - through Longform - about Susan Miller, astrologer to the fashion elite. Obviously, their weird fascination with the world's ugliest website was the secret to their success, and I wanted in. Here's what the month of February looks like for me, courtesy of Ms. Miller (and the generosity of Wellington-Dufferin Student Transportation Services)
Will the 28th be a glamourous evening? I have no idea. But even wading through the sparkling fairy dust, and mapping out my chart, made me feel like my life was managed. Which is the most I can ask of anything right now, whether science, pseudoscience, or this.
