Man, I swear every time I see one of those horoscope health guides for Pisces, it’s all the same nonsense. It’s always about boundaries, drinking more water, or getting enough “dream time.” Like we didn’t figure that out after the first thirty years of our lives. But you know what? I still keep clicking on them. Why? Because sometimes you get so messed up by life, you just want to blame the stars instead of your own stupid decisions.
I decided to put this whole “avoiding bad luck” thing to a proper test. I needed a clear baseline, something I could actually measure. Not just ‘feeling better.’ I wanted to see if I could dodge those tiny, annoying, soul-crushing bits of bad luck that just seem to follow us watery types around. The car battery dying exactly when you’re late, the phone cracking after a two-inch drop, the printer breaking right before the deadline. You know the drill.
My Pisces Anti-Bad Luck Protocol: A Two-Week Dive
I picked one of those ridiculously strict Pisces guides online. The one that promised “cosmic alignment” or something equally vague. The core of it wasn’t meditation or crystals, thankfully, but two things I absolutely suck at: extreme self-care and rigid scheduling.
- I immediately started tracking everything. Every stomach gurgle, every weird dream, every time I spilled coffee, I logged it in a cheap notebook I found in a drawer.
- I forced myself to be asleep by 10:30 PM. This one was a killer. I’m a night owl. I fought my natural impulse to scroll until 1 AM. I switched out my usual late-night whiskey for some weird chamomile-lavender tea that tasted like old socks.
- I eliminated all sugar and spice. The guide claimed Pisces guts are like delicate flowers, so I committed to only bland, easily digestible food. Boiled chicken, plain rice, zero hot sauce. I suffered through two weeks of what felt like hospital food.
- I actively avoided drama. The guide said bad luck is attracted to emotional chaos. So, I muted all the overly intense group chats. I refused to get pulled into online arguments. I basically acted like I was a pleasant, emotionally stable Libra for fourteen days. It was exhausting.
The first few days, honestly, I was a wreck. I was cranky from the early bedtime, starving for a decent taco, and convinced the whole thing was a waste of time. I still dropped my keys, I still missed a package delivery, and I still found a suspicious scratch on my car door that wasn’t there the night before. Zero change in “bad luck.”
But then something shifted. Around Day 8. The bad luck didn’t stop, but my reaction to it totally changed. When the printer jammed, I just sighed and fixed it, instead of having a fifteen-minute internal meltdown about being cosmically persecuted. My stomach felt fantastic, and for the first time in forever, I wasn’t waking up with that low-level hum of anxiety. I realized the guide was full of crap about the cosmos, but it accidentally delivered the goods on health.
Why did I even go to these extremes? Why did I need a horoscope to tell me to stop eating junk and get some sleep?
I moved to this town five years ago for a big-shot managerial job. I was supposed to be the new star, the ‘visionary’ who turned things around. It was a total nightmare. The place was run by two old brothers who just yelled at each other all day. I walked into a constant firestorm. Everyone was on edge. I remember this one huge quarter, I had a pitch that absolutely had to land. I spent three straight days working on it, no sleep, just coffee and microwaved pizza.
The morning of the pitch, I woke up, and my neck was totally locked up. I mean, I literally couldn’t turn my head. I looked like a robot. I called the doctor. They said it was stress, pure and simple. They asked if I was sleeping. I said no. They asked if I was eating right. I said no. I asked if it was my horoscope. The nurse actually laughed at me.
I showed up to that pitch looking like a zombie and totally blew it. The brothers tore into me. I walked out of the meeting, straight to my desk, and drafted my two-week notice. I handed it in, packed my box, and left without saying goodbye. No exit interview. Nothing. I turned off my work phone in the elevator.
I spent the next six months just recovering. It wasn’t until I started forcing myself into a healthy routine—not because the stars commanded it, but because I was physically broken—that the ‘bad luck’ of that job finally lifted. That’s why I started blogging. To record these dumb experiments. Because I found out the ‘avoid bad luck’ trick isn’t magic; it’s just being decent to your own body. All that stress that caused the bad luck? It came from being tired, hungry, and letting jerks control my schedule. The stars had nothing to do with it.
