Man, I swear, there was a stretch back in ’19 where my life was just complete garbage. I’d walked away from a decent gig—a real stable salary—because some idiot manager kept trying to pull stunts. Next thing I know, I’m sitting on my battered couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking: What the hell now?
The Old Habit Kicked In
I always used to look for Jonathan Cainer’s Pisces horoscope. Not every week, but when things got really hairy, that was my go-to. It wasn’t just some vague nonsense; it was like the guy saw the whole damn script. You felt like you could actually trust it. So, naturally, when everything blew up in my face, I
ran straight back to the old ritual. I typed his name into the search bar, desperate for some kind of sign, some flicker of hope that the universe hadn’t completely forgotten me.
I hit nothing but dead ends. I mean, I knew he’d been gone a few years, but I just figured someone had picked up the torch, you know? Like, the legacy has to be somewhere. I spent the next four hours clicking through crap websites, forum posts, and archives that all looked like they were designed in 1998. It was a disaster, a real digital graveyard.
I found the paper he used to write for. That was the first good lead. I clicked it, full of piss and vinegar, ready to absorb some stellar advice. And there it was. A Pisces forecast. But it wasn’t him. It just wasn’t the same deep, poetic punch to the gut that the old man used to deliver. It was… polished. Too smooth. Like a bad cover band trying to nail Hendrix.
The Scramble for the Real Deal
I started digging deeper, right? Because I’m a stubborn idiot. I wasn’t going to let some generic write-up be the end of my quest. I wanted Cainer’s actual voice. That’s when the reality of what actually happened hit me, piece by piece.
- The column was carried on by his nephew, Oscar. Fair enough. Family business, whatever.
- But I learned the archives are a mess. They’re scattered. There’s no single source where you can just pull up every damn thing he ever wrote, week by week.
- It’s a hot mess of content, man. You got the stuff he wrote, the stuff Oscar writes, and a bunch of other crap mixed in, all under the same banner.
It’s like when you go back to a band you loved, and they’ve replaced the lead singer. The songs are technically right, the notes are there, but the soul is completely gone. That’s what this whole astrology scene became after he passed. It turned into a big patchwork quilt of trying to keep the brand alive without the genius behind it.
I felt cheated. Not by the new guy, he’s probably doing his best, but by life itself. The one reliable voice I sought out when the floor fell out was silenced, permanently. Everything was a copy, a rehash, a pale imitation trying to capture that old magic. It just solidified what I was already feeling: you cannot rely on anyone or anything else, because eventually, the good stuff either leaves or gets diluted to the point it’s useless.
What I Actually Found
The whole stupid search didn’t give me a forecast for that week. It gave me a kick in the pants. My obsession with finding that old, specific voice forced me to face the fact that I had to write my own script.
I kept seeing people asking online, just like I was, “Where is Cainer now?” “Is this the real forecast?” And you get a hundred different answers, each one dragging you to some subscription or some half-baked archive. It’s all a bloody distraction from the main event, which is living your actual life. I wasted a whole day looking for permission, for a hint, for a safety net that simply didn’t exist anymore.
So, yeah, that week I found my forecast alright. It wasn’t in the stars. It was in the sudden, depressing realization that the person who made the stars make sense for me was gone, and no one was going to replace him. I closed the laptop, called up an old contact, and started hustling for work. Screw the horoscopes. That’s the real forecast you need sometimes: the cold, hard slap of reality telling you to get moving.
