The past few weeks I’ve felt chaotic to the point that I started to consider professional help. A psychic, not a shrink. I’m not prepared for the level of commitment a therapist would require. I learned yesterday (thank you, Kathy) that my irrational behavior and the sensation that a gazillion thoughts are going to make my brain explode and leave little bits of skull all over the place can be attributed to the fact that Mercury is in retrograde. I’m not losing my shit, you guys! This is fabulous news. In case you don’t know what this means, please allow me to explain.
The planet Mercury occasionally gets too big for its britches and decides to go so ridiculously slow, it appears to be going backward. “Look at me, I’m so special I don’t have to do what the other planets are doing…blah, blah…” This throws the entire universe off kilter. Energy is a sensitive beast, after all.
Well, before Mercury was a planet he was the Roman god of commerce. In some depictions he carried a purse, supposedly because he was a businessman. It was a purse, Tinky Winky. I think we all know where this is going: straight to mutha-flippin’ Chick-Fil-A! Mercury got his knickers in a twist and did something “inappropriate” at America’s third favorite chicken shop and then that man named Cathy said some things and now nobody but Fundies can eat cheap chicken sandwiches with waffle fries.
Mercury was also the god of sleep and dreams. Lots of us have suffered from insomnia lately. Why aren’t we conducting all night domino-tournaments? That’s better than lying awake trying to choose between world-domination or rehab. Let’s plan ahead for Mercury’s next hissy-fit, y’all. I’ll bring the big gay purse full of chicken!
Mercury was also the god of pranksters. So, basically he’s a bit of an asshole. That’s why he’s messing with each and every one of us right now. Are things just not making sense? Are your children taunting you to the point that you’ve considering joining the Merchant Marines but you’re not sure if that’s even a real thing? Have you considered using your creative energy to sew all the sheets in the house together because it would be really cool to have a giant sheet (you could drape it over your house and the neighbors would wonder if you had ET in there) but you sold your sewing machine fifteen years ago when that silver dress you made looked like something Courtney Love would have rejected for being too shabby? Calm down, sweetie. It’s not your fault. Blame Mercury. That prick.