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6 January 2001

"This is the excellent foppery of the
world, that, when we are sick in
fortune-- often the surfeit of our own
behavior-- we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the
stars; as if we were villains by
necessity; fools by heavenly
compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance;
drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an
enforced obedience of planetary
influence; and all that we are evil in, by
a divine thrusting on."

-- Shakespeare, King Lear (I. ii)

Twelfth Night. Sherlock Holmes' birthday. The first time I've been able to tie my own hair back since I broke my elbow skating at the heron's pond on Christmas Eve.

My horoscope in today's paper:


SCORPIO: Lie low, prepare to leave premises. Dramatic reunion set for tonight. You will know your love is not unrequited. Project will be completed.

Okay, I'm lying low...

This is the most promising horoscope I've had in ages. Drama, reunion, requited love, a project brought to completion. It should be a very interesting evening— however, it's now after eight o'clock.

"...prepare to leave premises." Hmmmm. I hope I don't have to evacuate— oh, you don't suppose they mean "premises" as in "propositions supposed as the basis of argument or inference," do you? I have a lot of those saved up. Are the stars telling me it's time to figuratively clean house?

Ah, well. I suppose it's all a matter of interpretation. Rats.


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