THE REAL DEAL WITH PISCES AND ‘TRUE LOVE’
Man, let’s get one thing straight right off the bat: the universe is a whole mess, and so is finding anyone who doesn’t totally screw things up. People ask if a horoscope can nail “true love” for a Pisces this week. My answer? Yeah, maybe, but you have to live through a mountain of crap first to even figure out what the stars were talking about.
The practice I went through wasn’t some gentle Sunday read of an astrology chart. It was a damn fire drill. It all started when my life completely nose-dived last spring. I had just gotten completely and utterly dumped. Not a polite, sit-down coffee chat—a screaming match about dirty dishes and who owed whom for the internet bill. That’s how my five-year relationship ended, over two hundred bucks and a greasy pizza pan. I was kicked out of my own apartment, which I had put the security deposit down on, all because the lease was in her name, and her brother was a lawyer. Figure that one out. I packed three boxes of my stuff, shoved them into my car, and slept on my buddy’s couch for two weeks. It was a total disaster.
I was so low, I needed something, anything, to tell me things weren’t completely hopeless. I’d never really touched horoscopes before, but when you’re sleeping next to a box of old college textbooks and your own clothes stink like stale gas station coffee, you get desperate. I remembered my ex always said I was “such a typical Pisces,” sensitive and living in fantasy land. Fine. I figured, if I’m doomed to be a Pisces, let’s see what this weekly nonsense says. That’s when I started the ‘practice’—a weekly, desperate tracking of every single word about my love life.
I fired up the laptop, searched for the “Pisces Weekly Love Horoscope,” and landed on the first result that looked professional, which probably meant absolutely nothing. The first week I tracked was a joke. It said: “A chance encounter could lead to deep, meaningful connection. Be open to communication.”
- I went: I went to the laundromat, the only place I had to go that week other than the office. I accidentally walked in on an old lady standing in front of her open washing machine, staring at a sock. She said, “Is this mine or yours?” I said, “I don’t know, it’s grey.” Zero deep connections.
- I recorded: Prediction (Deep Connection) = Reality (Sock confusion. Failure).
The second week was even worse. It promised a “reconciliation with an old flame or a sudden romantic trip.” I nearly fell off my buddy’s uncomfortable futon. I was like, this is it!
- I called: I dialed my ex’s number. She didn’t answer. I texted her, “Hey, I saw the stars said we should maybe talk.” She replied a day later: “Stop using astrology as an excuse to text me.”
- I recorded: Prediction (Reconciliation) = Reality (Hostile text message. Complete failure).
I kept going for over two months. I logged all the vague crap: the “unexpected financial good fortune” that amounted to finding a ten-dollar bill in an old jacket, and the “focus on self-care” that I interpreted as eating an entire tub of cheap ice cream every night. My initial belief that these things were helpful completely evaporated. I realized these things are so broad they could apply to literally anyone who owns a dog or has ever paid a bill.
The ‘practice’ suddenly shifted when I stopped reading the ‘Love’ section and started reading the ‘Career and Personal Growth’ section. One week, it said, “Emotional clarity comes from removing what is no longer serving your true self.” I looked up from the screen at the couch I was sleeping on, at the pitying look my friend was giving me, and at the mountain of anxiety I had about the old apartment situation. I figured out what the hell that meant.
I went and found a cheap room share downtown. I hired a different lawyer, not the ex’s brother, and sued for my deposit back. I started saying “no” to my boss who kept dumping extra work on me. I dumped the silly week-by-week spreadsheet. I cut the cord on the whole situation. I stopped tracking the horoscope and started tracking my bank account balance and my sleep quality. Guess what? Both went up.
The big, final realization? I met someone. Not through an “unexpected encounter” at the laundromat. Not a reconciliation. I met her at a friend-of-a-friend’s party, six weeks after I had moved into my new room. We talked about her job, my terrible breakup, and the stupidity of horoscopes. It was awkward, it was real, and it was the furthest thing from the mystical, vague nonsense the stars had been predicting. The “true love” I found wasn’t a gift from the cosmos when I was desperate. It only showed up after I had ditch that noise and focused on getting my own life out of the gutter.
So, did I find true love as the Pisces horoscope suggested? Yeah, maybe. But the practice proved that the stars don’t do the work. They just give you a flimsy excuse to finally get your own butt in gear and fix the things you were too scared to touch. It took a whole mess of tracking and a total meltdown of my life to figure out you only find the ‘love’ part when you stop begging the universe and start living.
