Star-crossed
Despite having several experiences to the contrary, I'm by and large a rather ingrained skeptic. Horoscopes? Overly generic monstrosities. Astrology? Presumptuous practices ladling spoonfuls of human ego over the uncaring planetary movements. Senseless categorizations!
But so help me, I'll do those damned personality quizzes in all the women's magazines, out of sheer morbid curiosity.
So when he offered me a tarot reading, I was intrigued - morbidly so.
Unfortunately it's all too complex to (briefly) tell. About the only part of the whole thing that will be relevant in isolation is that I picked what is supposedly my "representational card":
[explain]
According to the voice of cosmic voices, I'm a girl with too much charm, drawing unsuspecting moths to my flames before I roast them alive.
I was awarded a runes reading too. The consistencies between the two readings were startling - enough to crease the skin on my forehead into thoughtful corrugations.
It's not so much kneejerk reaction as brainspasm. To me, astro-logic comes from the same cognitive dimensions as fleece, wool and cowpats, and I'm instinctively wary of things I can't think through. And only historians can know how magnificently the words from the past can be misinterpreted, let alone words from the stars.
but, whatever. Expect scant updates. I'm crossing waters to Singapore tomorrow to conflagrate the town, and crossing stars to Tasmania on Tuesday to crush someone's ribcage inwards into his spleen.
(I am, like, so homicidal).