April 16, 2025
Hobo Horoscope Journal – by Mystic Harry, Seer of Side Alleys
Ahhh, another blessed sunrise peeking over the rusted rail yard like a yolky eye of prophecy. Woke up with my beard full of acorn caps and a sense of ominous chill. Either the spirits are restless, or I rolled over on a can of Vienna sausages again. Spoiler: it was both.
Morning Rituals:
Started my day as always with a little Trash Fire Meditation. Lit the sacred bin with offerings of dry cardboard, a lonely sock, and half a Chicken McNugget box I found whispering to me from behind the Arby’s. Sat in lotus position on a milk crate, stared into the flickering flame, and cleared my mind of worldly worries like taxes, clean socks, and where the city moved my favorite dumpster.
The fire spit back visions, baby. Signs, omens. I saw a goat with six legs dancing in a circle made of peanut shells. That definitely means it’s a bad day for Libras to gamble.
The Raccoon Duel of Destiny:
Mid-morning, I was doing a little scrying in my ceremonial baked bean can—gleaming with mysterious grease. Just got a vision of Gemini entering a “chaotic transformation cycle” when I heard a skitter behind me. Turned, and lo! A monstrous raccoon, fat as a bowling ball and twice as mean, was rummaging through my sacred bag of bread heel offerings.
I approached peacefully, holding out a half-eaten granola bar in friendship. The beast took it—and then bit me on the finger with teeth like tiny jagged mirrors.
We locked eyes.
We fought.
Twas a battle of wills and garbage-fu. I wielded the ancient hobo art of Box-Fu, flipping a milk crate with shocking precision. The raccoon countered with his dark technique: the Tail Whirlwind of Trash Fury. He was trained.
After an honorable scuffle, I whispered the raccoon’s true name into the wind (which I deduced from his aura: Sir Skitters McMangealot), and he froze. We parted with mutual respect, and he stole my sandwich anyway.
Evening Reflections:
Bandaged my finger with a coupon for a free tire rotation and resumed meditation. The fire showed me a vision of a waffle iron ascending into the stars. I think it means something big is coming.
Beware the man with socks that don’t match—he holds chaos in his pocket.
Until tomorrow, may your cans be full and your spirits unbothered,
—Harry the Mystic Hobo
Seer of Garbage, Friend of the Moon Rats, Defender of the Sacred Bins
P.S. Aquarius: Don’t drink the glowing puddle. Not again.
Leave a Reply