Everything's a sign of my astrology

Even though I generally tend to stick horoscopes in the Celestine Prophecy/Dr. Phil category of things that are strictly off-limits for me for mental health reasons, I read my horoscope nearly every day.

What makes me laugh, besides the fact that they're rarely applicable, is how specific some daily readings can be while others can be completely vague. For example, my horoscope today reads:

You're a fantastic host or hostess. If your guests arrive early, you aren't likely to be flustered -- luckily, you've thought out every last detail ahead of time, so nothing is going to throw you off. If more partners show up than you had originally planned, that's not a problem either -- you've probably got extra seating and food on hand just in case something like this happened. Pat yourself on the back -- your hard work has certainly paid off!

What? First of all, I'm not hosting a dinner party tonight, and if I was, I wouldn't be able to locate an egg or can opener in my house right now, much less orchestrate a fabulous dinner party with "extra seating and food on hand just in case something like this happened."

Why can't they just be vague and tell me that I'm about to come into a huge amount of money or land my dream job tomorrow? And who are these psychics? Retired fiction writers who dream up these improbable scenarios to spread their misery and misperceptions to the general public?

I emailed the horoscope page to express that their assessment of my day was a complete fabrication of my actual day, which would read more like this:

Around noon, you will go outside to discover that the cloudy morning has turned into a beautiful day. You will light a cigarette, wonder what the fuck you're doing spending your days in a cubicle surrounded by moronic questions and idiotic leaps of logic, and nearly burst into tears. You will blame all your problems on Dick Cheney, smoke another cigarette, rip your pantyhose on concrete, say "shit," go back to the office and write a blog entry (while you should be working) and once again rationalize your blogging by muttering "i hate this hellhole" under your breath. Your coworker will hear you, once again, look concerned and keep typing. You will barely make it to the end of the day, and when you do, you will probably try and invite yourself over to someone's house for dinner (since you have no food) or go home and pretend that you're little orphan Annie and starve yourself till morning while wallowing in self-deprecating pity.