In HorrorScopes, the Grapevine’s dedicated team of amateur astrologists break down your upcoming weeks based on shit like “moons,” as if they even exist.
We didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but your boyfriend’s fetish is actually hanging out with pathetic losers.
The truth, Taurus, is that that moustache you’re growing is not working for you and everyone is just too polite to say anything. You’re not attractive enough to pull off the 70s porn star aesthetic. You’re a systems analyst.
Gemini, let’s not beat around the bush. 2020 is your year. We’d recommend just buying your wedding dress now ‘cause there’s no way your latest drug-addled fuckbuddy isn’t going to pop the question soon.
Don’t be embarrassed about your weekly chugging Merlot and crying to Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway” sessions, Cancer. Spread your wings and fly, bby.
Leave her before she loves you, Leo.
You can say you’re “not a brony” all you want, but we know the truth. You disgust me.
Do you have your passport? Did you get your shots? Libra, get ready, ‘cause you’ll have a great time in America.
Your dedication to the art of influencing is admirable, Scorpio, that said, there are only so many variations when taking pictures of your butt. Maybe it’s time for a boob job—you need new material.
If you don’t file your taxes on time, all of your loved ones will die before you. Oh, just kidding, nobody loves you.
Your Mom knows about your Pornhub premium. Also your incest fetish.
What are you doing? Seriously, what are you doing? At this very moment. While you’re reading this. Stop that. Stop thinking about that. Gross.
You know you’re flawless, and we know you’re flawless, but does the rest of the world? Time to show everyone what you’ve got in the form of maracas.
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