Aries. Sit down, sinner. April is gonna be a piece of work and I’m gonna walk through it with you because if I don’t, Madonn’, you’ll be writing me from the side of the parkway by Wednesday with a story about a Ford F-150 and a man who said his name was Anthony.
This is your month. Sun’s in your sign for the front half. The boardwalk is waking up — you can hear it from Asbury, the rides being tested, the salt-air starting to smell like the season is coming. You feel it in your chest, my child. That little Mars-engine kicking on. Good. Use it. But hear me — the spark is the easy part for you. The spark has never been your problem. The governor on the spark is your problem, and April is asking you to install one before May arrives with a bill.
Week one is for finishing, sweet thing. I know — your least favorite verb. You’ve got something half-built in the garage of your life. The class. The application. The conversation with your mother that’s been open since Easter. Pick one and close it. Don’t open the new thing yet. I am begging you. Saint Anthony for the half-finished thing in your drafts folder — light him a candle on a Tuesday and dig the thing out.
Week two, somebody from your past is going to text you. You’ll know which past. You’ll read it three times. You’ll draft the response in your head before you’ve finished reading. That’s the trap, dirty Madonna. The two-block-walk rule applies. Pour the coffee. Walk the parkway side of the block. Then respond, if you respond at all. The Aries who answers in twelve seconds is not the Aries who wakes up Saturday glad she did.
Mid-month — around the 18th, when the Sun crosses into Taurus and the rest of the zodiac slows down — you’re gonna feel like the world is moving in molasses. You’re gonna want to escalate something just to make the room interesting again. Don’t. This is when you confuse anger with rightness. Sit with the boredom for forty-eight hours. Pour another coffee. Re-pot a plant. The boring stretch is when the deep work happens, and Aries treats deep work like it’s a personal insult. Take the insult.
Late April, somebody will offer you something. A job, a date, an invitation to invest in a thing your cousin’s friend swears is gonna be huge. Sit on it for one week. Not because the answer is no — it might be yes — but because the fast yes is your sin, and the universe is teaching you the patient yes this month, the same way it taught me in a Wawa parking lot in 2003 with a cup of coffee and a question I won’t repeat.
The thing you’re gonna want to apologize for? Apologize fast. Five words. Don’t dress it up. The fast clean apology is the Aries superpower nobody talks about — your pride survives it, the relationship survives it, you walk out lighter.
Go raise hell, my creature. Just install the governor first. Saint Joan rides with you. Don’t run the red. Call your mother on the way — she’s still mad about Easter and she’s gonna outlive both of us.