Taurus (April 20-May 20): I'll show up in your dreams this week if you want me to. But I'd rather not have the assignment of killing the rhinoceros that's been chasing you. (Or is it a carnivorous unicorn?) It's not that I'm afraid of the beast. It's just that I don't think we should kill it. The Senoi people of Malaysia, who some say are dream experts, teach us not to destroy the frightful creatures in our nightmares. Rather we should confront them, converse with them if possible, and even demand a gift from them. In conclusion, Taurus, if you do want me to visit you in the dream time, please allow me to help you wrest a blessing from the monster.
Gemini (May 21-June 20): Of all history's tragedies, one of the saddest is the uncanny disparity between love and romance. Real love, after all, is hard work. It's unconditional, unselfish, and driven by compassionate sympathy. Romance, on the other hand, is a slave to the tingling intoxication of warm, gushy feelings. It's selfish and conditional and often more obsessed with getting than with giving. Do you think you could do something about this, Gemini? Like maybe see if you can improvise more convergence between these strange bedfellows?
Cancer (June 21-July 22): I hate to sound like a crabby fuddy-duddy bitching about how life was better in the old days. But I've been suffering from that delusion lately. The word-processing software I bought back in 1990 outperforms the supposedly new, improved version. I've had similar experiences recently with cars, radios, shampoos, and breakfast cereals. However, I'm praying with all my heart that I don't generalize from this and fixate on the conclusion that everything old is better. That can't be the case. It can't, it can't, it can't. I know I'll be OK if I can just make it through these next two weeks -- when we Crabs will face our strongest temptation ever to overglorify the past.
Leo (July 23-Aug. 22): What do you have in common with a virgin accountant nibbling potato chips while reading the phone book in the desert? Not much, except this: Neither of you is wet enough. If it sounds like I'm exaggerating for effect, I am -- but just barely. I can't risk you getting any more emotionally dehydrated than you already are. The stars are begging me to beg you to imitate a tsunami. So go soak yourself, O unsaturated one. Immerse yourself in long, hot baths and slippery massages. Drink deep from the cup that never empties. Unleash a flood of sublime tears.
Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): Shall we count all the ways you can deny the Big Red Throbbing Problem? (1) You can trump up a Little Pink Piddling Problem to distract everyone's attention from it. (2) You can cram your schedule with so many exhausting tasks that you won't have any energy left over to think about it. (3) You can pounce on the screw-ups of a convenient scapegoat, unleashing such a consuming flame of blame that there's no fuel left over to light a fire under your own butt. (4) You can intone over and over again, like a mantra, "I am NOT denying the problem."
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): It would be a good week to arrange a marathon swimming session in a sweaty bed with a kooky plaything. If that's not possible, could you please at least try take a beer shower, preferably with a Pollyanna-ish conspiracy theorist who'd also join you for a make-out session at the movies? And in case you haven't caught my drift yet, my friend, I'm trying to subliminally seduce you into accepting the following title for this week's drama: "Limbering Up Libra's Libido."
Scorpio (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): In mock honor of all the dogmas and certainties you're being forced to hurl out the window, we're proud to present eight full-bodied cliches for your use this week -- the most ever crammed into a single Real Astrology horoscope. Enjoy! 1) The barriers are falling. 2) The tide is turning. 3) The boundaries are blurring. 4) The floodgates are opening. 5) The fat lady's singing. 6) Your mother was wrong. 7) Your forbears are rolling over in their graves. 8) Your mojo and your karma have a blind date in a labyrinth where entropy and relativity are engaged in a fight to the finish.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Have you ever blown the family fortune playing the slot machines? Or tipped over the poker table and fled out the door in order to cut your losses? If so, you probably don't have enough self-control to capitalize on the wild cards the cosmos is offering you this week. If on the other hand, you're one of those Sagittarians whose fondness for gambling has never turned into a compulsion, you now have license to take a big, feisty chance. Even you disciplined types, however, should not bet your soul on a 1000-to-1 shot.
Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Maybe you remember the horoscope of a few months back in which I urged you to treasure the rose as much as you admired the mountain. In your own steely way, it seems, you took my advice to heart. That, at least, is what I've concluded after weeks of watching you try to grow roses on the mountaintop. I'm truly amazed you coaxed any blooms at all from the rocky ground at those great heights. Congratulations. My point, though, was not for you to seek the rose experience and the mountain experience in the same place; rather, I was simply urging you to grant them equal shares of your attention. Now please come down from the rocky ridge and perform your rosy experiments in more hospitable soil.
Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): Studies by Simon LeVay, author of Queer Science, suggest there are structural dissimilarities between the brains of gay and straight men. I wonder if we might make an analogous claim about you? Could Aquarian gray matter be wired differently than the brains of all the other signs of the zodiac? I've often wondered, while watching your tribe's more eccentric and ingenious antics, if that weren't the case. Certainly this hypothesis will seem to be borne out in upcoming weeks. Your dizzyingly original, dazzlingly stimulating contributions are likely to be more than just out of this world. They may be out of this galaxy.
Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20): In 1824 -- so the legend goes -- a Piscean matron named Dame Partington held the Atlantic Ocean at bay with her mop. As a tempest blew in on her seaside home in southeast England, she fought resourcefully to sweep it back with the same tool she used to swab away slop and puddles. In the early autumn of 1996, 172 years later, her Piscean successors face a similar, if less literal, challenge. "Don't push the river," is the old saying, and usually I agree. But this is one time you just might have the power not only to push the river, but maybe even the ocean.