Being a Pisces isn’t some cute little “two fish swimming in harmony” story. Nah. It’s more like having two lunatics chained up in the same skull, fighting for the steering wheel while your life barrels downhill with no brakes.

Person One: The Surgeon.

Cold. Surgical. Brilliant. This one calculates risks like a Wall Street shark on Adderall. Always whispering logic, strategy, clean lines of survival. The one that says, “Hey, maybe don’t text your ex at 3 AM. Maybe don’t buy that guitar when rent’s due. Maybe don’t start a fight with the guy twice your size just because he looked at you sideways.”

Person Two: The Arsonist.

This one doesn’t whisper—he screams. He lights matches in the rain just to see if the fire loves him back. He’s the one that says, “Screw rent, we need that guitar. Text the ex, it’ll be funny. Punch that guy, your knuckles miss the taste of chaos.”

And here’s the curse: both voices sound convincing. Both feel like you. One keeps you alive. The other makes sure life feels worth surviving. Together they drag you into brilliance and ruin, sometimes in the same damn night.

That’s Pisces. Not fish—more like a coin tossed endlessly in the dark. One side is genius. The other? Beautiful disaster. And somehow… you’re addicted to both.

Saint Dirty Face:

Stay Dirty. Stay Wild.