Mystic Queen Mags is back, and despite classes being over for the summer, the sun (sometimes) coming out, and not doing all that badly in her exams, she’s feeling decidedly… well, have a read to find out. Just don’t be expecting the most positive of outlooks (especially you, Scorpio).
You will wake up one morning with an insatiable thirst. Stumbling to the kitchen from your bed, you grip a glass too tightly whilst shakily pouring yourself some water. You drink to no avail. Opening your curtains the world outside appears normal, if not slightly more vivid than usual. Still parched after multiple cups of water with no explanation and on the verge of passing out, you call an ambulance, but the phone lines are dead.
It suddenly dawns on you that the tarmac on the road outside your flat is literally melting, with whole cars sinking into the road. Your mercury thermometer bursts as your curtains catch fire. The last thing you see is light bathing your kitchen as your retinas char amidst a muted scream.
God will be cruel to you this month.
The Fates will visit you in a dream, warning you of an imminent attempt on your life by a private-hire assassin working for an underground crime syndicate (I know what you did to upset them, but I’m not here to judge).
The next day, you will have a magnificent sesh in town which will culminate after an indulgent afterparty ending only at 5PM the next afternoon, when the host’s landlord slaps an eviction notice on the door to scare you off.
On the hazy walk home the Fates will visit you again. They alter the assassin’s path in life to that of a gruesome end whilst they were on the way to your flat that very morning. You ask what you did to deserve such special treatment, being a mere mortal of no significance to gods. They remark that Zeus, who is currently on hiatus from bringing rain to Glasgow and decided to mill around, has noticed your remarkable party skills, and promotes your ascendance to a demigod.
You apotheosise to Mount Olympus and get to play ancient Greek house bangers on Zeus’ subwoofers. Safe.
On your way home one day, you will be struck by the beauty of a handsome stranger with whom you will catch eyes across a busy road. You make your way over to them, and you both fall in love instantly during your introductions.
They are enamoured by your wit, self-effacing humour and esoteric knowledge of useless trivia, and you in turn are stunned by their honesty, grace in conversation and hatred of the globalist neoliberal agenda.
A whirlwind romance ensues, and after years of being together the flame of your love for one another will still burn bright. You marry and have three children, who all go on to be pioneers in neuroscience, literature and theoretical physics, respectively.
You’ll still die eventually though, so fuck you, you self-obsessed, overly-romantic, saccharine-sweet, happy-yet-unremarkable asshole. Fuck you.
You will be sitting in the park on a pleasant day, idly scribbling in your notebook, when a stranger with a brightly coloured trench coat and long beard will sit next to you. Fully braced for unwanted conversation, you turn to leave, but before you can, he grasps your arm with unexpected strength.
“No no, don’t leave just yet. I just wanted to see your notebook”, he says, with a disarmingly harmonic voice that compels you to hand it over, releasing yourself from his grip.
The eccentric leafs through your old notes and doodles, wearing a expression resembling a mixture of amusement and trepidation. A minute or so later, he closes the notebook, and pockets it whilst swivelling towards you in one fluid motion.
He produces a cheque for £250 and hands it to you wordlessly before leaving. Surprised, but grateful, you gleefully abandon your notebook, cash the cheque and buy some extortionately overpriced clothes on the high street.
A few days later you will be walking past an art gallery, narcissistically thinking, “bitch, I am the artwork”. Coming out of your self-indulgent trance for a moment, you notice something odd in the gallery window.
This foyer is full of pages from your notebook, all framed and stacked up to a high ceiling.
There are art critics sobbing in the corner – mumbling something or other about transcendental beauty in the age of overstimulation – when you realise the true gravity of what you have done.
This gallery is in the middle of the city.
This installation must be worth thousands.
You look back down at your Topman jumper that’s already beginning to come apart, and promptly decide to join the critics in the corner for a while.
Bored one day, you will message the #squad to see if anyone’s free to go out. A couple of people seem up for it, so you all meet at a landmark in town and go for a nice stroll about town. Unfortunately, you get caught in the rain, so you all rush towards the nearest shelter, which just happens to be a bus stop.
You wait there for a while, and a good ten buses pass with the rain still going strong, building up to the level of a heavy storm that the #squad did not account for when getting dressed that morning. You board the next bus, since your friend assures you that you can all hang out at their flat, which is only a few stops down the road.
You have a mediocre evening drying yourselves off in your friend’s living room, eating second-rate takeout and watching some forgettable romantic comedies. You end the night at 10PM, thanking your friends for a nice day, before taking a taxi home.
All Leos are boring fucks, so there’s not much to work with here. Go listen to some Mumford & Sons or whatever it is you people do, just please for the love of God don’t tell anyone about your day.
You will receive a mysterious invitation to an exclusive dinner party in the post. There is a black tie dress code and directions to a house that doesn’t appear to be listed on Google Maps. There’s an apology for short notice, as the party appears to be taking place on the day itself, in a few hours. Sufficiently intrigued, and with nothing better to do, you decide that you might as well – after all, it’s not every day that this sort of opportunity comes along.
You get ready and call a taxi, and after a very confusing route outside of the city, you arrive at a large, quaint cottage in the countryside. You thank the driver and offer payment, but he drives off without acknowledging it. At the door you’re wondering whether or not you made the right decision in accepting this invitation, not knowing what to expect from this mysterious setting.
As you tentatively reach for the doorbell, your deliberating is interrupted by a scrawny-looking black cat which brushes against your leg. Startled for a second, you feel affection for it, and decide to abandon the idea of going to the party, adopting your new friend instead. You miraculously still have cellular reception, and call a taxi back to your flat.
The next day, you wash your new friend and take them to the vet, and on returning home you check your phone to find that there’d been a mysterious mass cult-suicide at an unregistered address in the country last night.
Yeah, get that 80’s-era Twilight Zone shit out of here; instead, you have a sleek and sophisticated new pet friend who will never disappoint you with predictable plot-lines. Good on you.
You will experience full contentment in your current life situation for most of the month, only to be subject to the most debilitating, sudden and pervasive existential crisis of your life in the closing days of June.
You will attempt to remedy this in the usual ways: by shooting an Arab in cold blood on a sweltering Algerian beach, wistfully agonising over a past love and listening to jazz in muted, alien Parisian cafés and surviving a diabolical plague in a small desert town – but these activities only intensify your suffering, for whatever reason.
Try spending less time on your 20thC French literature and more time playing video games in July.
You will come across an artefact in Tesco on your weekly shop lying idly skewed between two boxes of fish fingers. An idol of sorts, it resembles a gaunt female human head with an indecipherable inscription in cuneiform on its base. Puzzled, you make your way to your local library in an attempt to translate it, but with no such luck.
The idol lies on your beside table for three nights. On the third, you are catching up Game of Thrones when you feel something rumble, knocking your poorly placed tortilla chips onto the floor. Frozen, you pause the video and wait. The rumbling intensifies, and you notice that your room is brighter than it was when you started. After considering the possibility that you might’ve stayed up past sunrise again, you turn to notice the idol glowing with increasing intensity. The rumbling becomes more violent by the second, and just as your windows begin to look like they might shatter, it stops.
It all stops.
After what feels like an eternity, you awaken in a strange place, one of suffocating air, where grotesque figures roam a burnt landscape. An 8-foot-tall glowing figure is standing before you, evoking a faint memory of the idol with its gaunt face. It greets you, with the voice of a hundred thousand tortured souls:
“I am Ereshkigal, god of the Underworld. You have spoiled season 6 of Game of Thrones for me. I was to reward you with immortality for rescuing my idol, but now, you shall suffer for all eternity.”
Should’ve shopped at Lidl.
On your way back from work one exceptionally rainy day, you will see the most adorable dog you have ever seen attempting to rescue a magpie from a roadside gutter. The magpie being in no immediate danger, you take the opportunity to take a painfully indiscreet Vine of the situation, knowing that it’ll go viral the moment it’s posted.
You begin to inch forwards with your phone out, so obviously capitalising on the situation with a great big silly grin on your face, when you fail to notice a second magpie on your flank. It startles you, causing you to fling your phone directly into the gutter and promptly be set upon by the dog, which is more terrifying than adorable once it starts to bark directly into your ear as you lie crooked over the kerb.
Collecting yourself after this traumatic experience, you get up to notice at least 15 grinning hipsters with their phones out taking videos of the entire episode. Mortified, you rush home, only to find that a recording of the event has already been shared 10,000 times in the hour it’s been posted – captioned ‘dumbass meme kid gets destroyed’.
Sure enough, by the end of the week there have been 3 articles written about your ordeal on Vice, and weird Twitter has adopted your distorted face as the much-needed replacement for the ‘dat boi’ phenomenon. Have a nice life, and know that this is what you deserved.
With it being so sunny out, you will inevitably find your way down to the beach for a pleasant day of afternoon beers, sandcastles and horrific sunburn, because sun cream is more expensive than alcohol and/or sand.
Whilst burning yourself to a crisp, however, you notice a glimmer on the horizon. Squinting hard with your knockoff Ray Ban sunglasses on (typical Capricorn), you can faintly make out the shapes of multiple aircraft carriers. Shocked, you reach for your Windows phone (pfft) and call Theresa May on speed-dial (all Capricorns are Tories, get out, the lot of you). She is just as shocked as you are, and accesses spy satellites that reveal the vessels to be of unknown national origin.
Now you’re getting bored, and as such your Tory characteristics are kicking in. At this point, you would much rather knock back another Corona than facilitate an international crisis resolution.
You lamely excuse yourself from conversation and go about your day as planned. You have an altogether pleasant time with the beach suddenly all to yourself, but end up leaving early once the dogfighting superfast jets begin to block out the sun.
You would write a comment about the experience on the Daily Mail website, but London has fallen by the time you get home, and this new government aren’t too keen on civilian access to the internet. Shame, that.
You will lose all grasp of irony and nuance this month begin to say ‘literally’ before every other word. Being a charismatic Aquarius, this trend quickly catches on amongst your social group, and soon, everyone you know is saying ‘literally’ so often that it starts to become difficult to get any sort of idea across through speech.
As time goes on, more and more people start to adopt this new mode of speech with unsettling sincerity, taking off exponentially throughout the rest of the Earth’s population. Soon, everyone on Earth can only say the word ‘literally’ to one another, without any memory of other words or languages. Unable to communicate, there is a massive depletion in the global population, being reduced to just half a billion within the month.
This might seem like bad news, but the truth is, this new restriction on mankind’s growth will see through unprecedented reversal of climate change and warfare. People begin to construct a new, universal common language, and begin to understand and empathise with each other to an exceptional degree. Within just a few years, your generally-being-a-cool-person will have solved every problem humanity has ever faced. Nice one.
As you piss away your youth on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram (delete as appropriate) one evening, you will experience an intense migraine. Colours will appear extremely vivid to you, and you will begin to experience auditory hallucinations. You check your tap water for an odd taste but there’s nothing suspicious, so you just decide to try to enjoy the trip to some Primal Scream.
Laying in bed, you will begin to have visions. You see bridges shimmering over arid riverbanks, with the sun multiple times larger than it should be in the background. You see a familiar face – perhaps someone you’ve met on a night out or in a lecture once – being tortured by an utterly terrifying emaciated glowing figure under black skies. You see Parliament ablaze, with a stern mixed-race man standing in the foreground – barking orders in a transatlantic accent to legions of hundreds of thousands of soldiers all dressed in black and red – as a British superfast jet tears through Big Ben.
Finally, you see a young man tiredly typing away at a laptop in the early hours of the morning, checking Twitter every few minutes to remind himself that the outside world still exists.
The pitiful sight of this instils a more visceral reaction in you than all of the other visions combined, and you from that point on resolve to become a determined, studious and industrious member of society.
Better you than me.