Saint Dirty Face

It’s Sunday, which means half the world is still in bed scrolling horoscopes, and the other half is outside pretending the universe left them on “read.”

Here’s the thing: horoscopes are fun. They’re like fortune cookies with better PR. We all peek at them—“This week you will find love, money, and a free pizza.” Sure, babe, sounds good. But you know and I know that the stars aren’t punching in at the cosmic call center to solve our problems.

What horoscopes do give us is a mirror. A reason to pause. A little poetry to break up the grind. And sometimes that’s all we need. A spark. A word. An excuse to hope.

But in the end? Trust your gut. Your instincts. That voice that tells you when to move, when to fight, when to shut the hell up and just listen. Stars may guide sailors, but instinct saves wolves.

So read your horoscope if you want. Hell, tattoo your zodiac across your chest if it makes you feel alive (guilty as charged). But never outsource your soul to a paragraph in the back of a magazine.

The stars may shine, but you? You burn.

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Saint Dirty Face™

Stay Dirty, Stay Human™