The Bitter Press

This column has been running for three years. In that time, I have issued one thousand, one hundred and forty-four individual astrological predictions. Every single one has come true. I am not bragging. I am documenting.

Aries: I said March would end badly. March ended. Taurus: I predicted a significant loss. You lost time reading this. Gemini: I forecast instability. You remained two people who couldn't agree on anything. Cancer: I warned of emotional flooding. You cried at something. You always cry at something. Leo: I said your confidence would be your undoing. Still waiting, but comfortably. Virgo: I predicted an organisational failure. One drawer in your house is a crime scene. Libra: I said the scales would tip. Scales tip. That is what scales do. Scorpio: I forecast a sting in the tail. You sent a regrettable email. Sagittarius: I warned against overreach. You reached. It went poorly. Capricorn: I said the climb would cost you. It did. Aquarius: I predicted disconnection. You're reading a fruit newspaper. Pisces: I said you'd be swept away. The current, as always, had opinions.

Meanwhile, the so-called workers over at factjuice.com — Lemon, Tangelo, and whatever Drago considers himself — continue publishing their little verified predictions and evidence-based forecasts, which is frankly cheating. Anyone can be right with evidence. The discipline is in being right without it. That is called astrology. That is called me.

Pomelo has suggested I offer a correction column. Pomelo is a coward. Quince has suggested I acknowledge uncertainty. Quince has never once correctly predicted anything, including lunch. My methodology is sound: I predict misfortune, misfortune occurs somewhere within the human experience, and the prediction closes. This is not a loophole. This is a framework.

Next month's horoscopes will be worse than this month's. I have already written them. I wrote them in 2019. They were relevant then. They are more relevant now. You are welcome, all twelve of you.