Hey. Dummy. You’re looking for love in all the wrong places. You should be basing all romantic decisions on the lunar cycle and whether or not pluto is still a planet. I consulted with Madame Matryoshka, reputable astrologist and ItWorks distributor, and she shared the best tips to find love based on your zodiac.
Get so good at contouring that you can actually jump into paintings. Fly to the Louvre, have a three-way with these guys and replace the Mona Lisa because unlike my acne, her eyebrows left and never came back.
Swallow the heart of a lamb and turn yourself into a succubus. You now survive on the sexual energy of men, and basically deplete them of their life-force after every encounter. The government recruits you for top secret operatives, and you work alongside our president Beyonce. One evening, while you two are draped across the couches in The Oval and swap stories of power and war, she slides a manila envelope across the table. “Your next mission,” she says in hushed tones. Wordlessly, you open it. Not one, but several names are typed upon the cardstock. You read them, realizing each is the identification of all of your celebrity crushes, ranked in order of overall hotness and flexibility. The whiskey tingles down your throat as you swallow. “I accept.”
Stop listening to Taylor Swift. Stop obsessing over Taylor Swift’s boyfriends. Stop watching the airport scene from Love Actually. Stop.
Get you a man who can build a love hut out of flannel and sticks and twine. Get you another man who’s beard game is so strong, it can open a jar for you. Then put the both of them together in a laser tag arena and let them fight to the death for you, Hunger Games style.
Study really hard in school. Master in biology. Stay in on the weekends and labor over MCAT practice tests. Graduate top of your class at John Hopkins, then complete your residency in Boston or San Francisco or New York City. Once you are a brilliant, notable researcher and witch doctor, lock yourself in a lab and add leather, pine needles and scotch to a petri dish. On the first full moon of the year of our lord 2025, stir in the secret ingredient (Windex? Cinnamon sticks? I can’t give you all the answers). Wait exactly 6 breaths, and then give the mixture a kiss. At that moment, Tom Hiddleston will emerge from the rows of beakers and lie naked on the table. Congratulations! You just brewed the perfect man.
Audition for The Bachelor, knowing full well you are there to gain notoriety and get a spin-off show on VH1. You never see it coming, but after the first time you and Chris Harrison are intimate together behind the editing room, you know your fate had changed drastically. Lean into it, girl. You do you.
Just give up.
Die peacefully in your sleep at the age of 88, and marry the ghost of Jim Belushi in a small yet elegant ceremony off the coast of Croatia.
Create a time machine and travel roughly 1000 years into the future, to an era where women control virtually everything and men are mostly decorative pieces. Take five men to be your husband and laugh a hearty laugh.
You laughed so hard at internet memes that you choked on the grape you were eating and died. The end.
You purchase an Oculus Rift headset and live in virtual reality not unlike The Sims, where you are dating Scott Eastwood and Ryan Gosling and you have a genetically modified body with 3% body fat. It’s not a bad life.
You write so much vampire fan fiction starring your favorite actors that you actually build up a weird cult following. It catches the attention of a big Hollywood producer, and you land yourself a movie deal. Four franchised movies later, you are a millionaire and can summon Robert Pattinson with mind control and have a lifetime membership card to Baskin Robbins. What up Stephanie Meyer!