You know how it is. You scroll through the internet, and every single site has a horoscope for Pisces. There’s the standard Sun Sign stuff, then the Moon Sign stuff, then the Venus stuff, and then someone comes along and invents “Darkstar” astrology, promising to tell you about the chaos hiding in your soul. It’s a total mess of conflicting advice, right? A hodgepodge of cosmic junk, much like my actual love life was a few weeks ago.
I usually just ignore all that mystical nonsense. I mean, my brain runs on coffee and hard data. But listen, when you’re staring down the barrel of your 35th birthday and your dating history looks like a police blotter of failed communication and bad takeout, you start grabbing for any kind of signal. Any signal at all.
The whole thing started because of The Sushi Incident. I had been busting my backside for six months straight on a huge project—all-nighters, canceled weekends, living off microwave dinners. I completely walled myself off from the world. When the project finally shipped, my friend Marcus practically dragged me out for a “re-entry” date he set up. This date, bless his heart, was with a guy named Chad.
I went. I dressed up. I showed up on time. Things were going fine, if a bit dull, until Chad decided to order Uni (sea urchin) sushi, which I am violently allergic to. I didn’t know this, of course, until he started talking about the “texture” and shoved a piece halfway across the table, not even checking if I was okay with it. My throat instantly tightened up. I had to ditch the date and dash to the car to suck down three Benadryls just to breathe right. That’s how my big romantic re-entry went. Isolated, stressed, and then almost suffocated by shellfish.
I was driving home, fuming, feeling completely defeated and wondering why I even bothered, when this damned “Darkstar” article popped up on my phone’s feed. The headline was aggressive, something like, “Pisces, Your Love Life Is Toxic: Avoid All Water Signs This Week.”
The Commitment: Diving into the Darkstar Mess
I was so angry and desperate—and medicated—that I decided right then and there to treat the reading like a mandatory, non-negotiable instruction manual. I wasn’t just going to read it; I was going to enforce it.
I pulled over and read the whole thing while the antihistamines kicked in. The weekly prediction stated a few things clearly:
- Block contact with an ex-flame (the Darkstar term for an ex was “Cosmic Debris”).
- Go to a place you normally avoid (it mentioned “places of loud music and dark corners”).
- Expect a random, non-romantic connection to save your week.
The toxic water sign thing was easy. The Sushi Chad was a Cancer, a water sign. Blocked. Immediately. No explanation needed. Just hit the button and moved on. Felt good, actually, like cutting a bad cord.
The Practice: The Darkstar Compliance Week
I committed to the instructions starting the next morning. First, the ex-flame thing. I had this guy, Mark, who cycles back every three months with a casual, “Hey, how are you?” text. He’s my “Cosmic Debris.” I usually give in to the brief, pointless banter. This time, I saw the text pop up, and I deleted it without opening. My finger hovered over the reply for a good two minutes, but I resisted. It felt incredibly satisfying to just shut that door.
Next up: the loud music and dark corners. I usually prefer quiet wine bars or my own couch. But the Darkstar said go. I Googled “underground events near me” and found a last-minute ticket to a tiny, sweaty basement show—some kind of indie electronic artist. I put on the most aggressively “not-me” outfit I owned and showed up. Alone.
I stood awkwardly in the corner, nursing a lukewarm beer, feeling ridiculous. Then, totally out of the blue, this dude next to me tripped and splashed half his drink all over my new leather jacket. My immediate instinct was to yell at him—the accumulated stress of the past six months and the trauma of The Sushi Incident all wanted out. But I paused. The Darkstar prediction of “random, non-romantic connection” flashed in my head.
I took a breath and simply shrugged it off. “It’s fine,” I muttered. He was completely mortified. He insisted on buying me a new drink. We talked for a solid hour, not about dating, not about relationships, but about old motorcycles and bad 90s movies. He owned a dry cleaner nearby and gave me a voucher to get the jacket professionally cleaned. No flirting, no pressure, just two people having a random, interesting conversation in a loud, dark place.
The Result: Did the Darkstar “Save” My Love Life?
The whole exercise, which I only started because I was stressed and annoyed, actually made me act completely differently. That interaction with the dry cleaner guy was genuinely the most enjoyable, stress-free human connection I’d had in a long time. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a date. It was just a clean jacket and a good talk. The “non-romantic connection” part was spot on.
Did the cosmos make this happen? No. Absolutely not. The prediction was a vague, aggressive piece of advice. But because I chose to follow its specific, weird instructions—to block the ex and go to a strange place—I was forced to break my own destructive routine. The Darkstar astrology wasn’t accurate because the stars aligned; it was “accurate” because its crazy prompts made me choose a path where genuine, low-stakes human contact could actually happen, instead of me just sitting at home waiting for the next Chad to try and poison me with seafood.
It’s all just a big, confusing cosmic hodgepodge, but sometimes, a dramatic instruction book is exactly what you need to finally unstick yourself.
