“What the future don’t tell ya straight, the cans’ll murmur sideways.” – H.H.
Mornin’, or evenin’, or whatever the clock says where yer sittin’.
I woke up today in the charred husk of what used to be a roadside pumpkin stand, curled up in an old bean sack and cradlin’ my Mystic Lima Can like it was the baby Jesus. The crows had already formed a judgmental circle. Bad omen, that. So I lit a trash fire and began my usual Meditation of the Melted Boot. Took about twelve minutes before the smoke shifted purple and whispered in the voice of a long-dead brakeman named Otis:
“Today, Harry… you gon’ shine. But not in the way you think.”
Well, shoot me in the foot with a railway nail if that ain’t a spooky forecast.
🥫 The Bean Can Scryin’
One by one, I pulled out the sacred Twelve. Gemini’s can gurgled like it had something caught in its throat. Pisces was frozen shut like it didn’t wanna talk (dreamers never do on Tuesdays). Capricorn’s tin spun three times and fell over dead quiet. That’s a sign. Of what? Hard to say. But something’s comin’.
I looked up, and lo, a mysterious wagon with blinking lights pulled off the interstate and hissed to a halt. Out jumps a woman dressed in sequins and thunderous heels, hollerin’ “Y’all booked for the Desert Glow Expo!”
Now, I don’t know what that is—but when a mystic’s day starts with purple crow omens and ends with free snacks and someone sayin’ “You’ve got great bone structure, let’s get you bronzed,” you ride the rail of fate.
🚿 The Incident
Turns out I got mistaken for a “rustic influencer” and ushered into a tent filled with machines that looked like bug zappers and tanning beds got married during a thunderstorm. Before I could say “Ma’am I subsist on possum jerky and starlight,” they had me stand on a little ‘X’ and got to mistin’.
Smelled like coconut and regret.
By the time I stumbled out, I was glowin’ like a Cheeto that achieved enlightenment. My skin—normally the color of old map parchment—had turned a radiant shade of “Deep Mojave Dusk™.” A raccoon fainted at the sight of me. Blaze laughed so hard he fell into a puddle of transmission fluid and claimed it as a baptism.
🔮 Today’s Prophecy
“If you look different, walk different, and smell vaguely tropical… you might just be steppin’ into your destiny.
Or someone else’s. Either way, strut.”
I don’t know if I’m cursed or blessed, but I do know this: I may have wandered into that expo a soot-stained hobo mystic, but I walked out a bronze beacon of confusion and cosmic insight.
Folks avoided me on the train today, which meant I got a whole freight car to myself. Thank you, spray tan spirits.
💫 Harry’s Tip of the Day
“When the universe offers you free fruit snacks and a makeover, don’t ask questions—just protect your eyebrows.”
Yours in wisdom, wanderin’, and weirdness,
– Hobo Harry
Mystic of the Midnight Mile
🧿 (P.S. Leo, keep your ego in check today. Your mane ain’t the only thing glowin’ out here.)
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