Do you believe in horoscopes?
                      My horoscope said I was going to get laid.
                      I got excited.
                      (Turn the speakers down when the noise starts getting on your tits.)

  The first sign happened in the morning in the Library.
An old man held his hand over his winkie whenever I passed by the self-help shelf.
Thanks but no thanks, I'll help myself..to a slightly less wrinkled winkie.

My work took me to my favourite spot, an obvious place to pick up a man.
I feel sky-high.

'XQz may! - I is getting LAID tonight - talk to the hand, bitch!' , said me, the one solely responsible to get the fat nation slimmer, as if..

The Three Graces of Hindustan discussing (in Gujarati) my rear end and other personal bits at the back of my class could not manage to wipe the smile off my face.

'Up 234, and down and lift and lower, take it down, pat it out, relax...Ladies, time to stretch and go home pretty to cook curry for your fat bastard at home'.

In the early evening I made my way to the gym.
Gotta keep this puppy toned and supple, well I am going to get lucky in a few hours.
Crack on.
The Gym Instructor aka Northern Cunt who usually spoils my work-out with his helpful remarks stayed well out of my personal space.
Second sign!
Things are going well.

Sign Three:
A voice from close behind, on my way out of the gym.

'Alrite, baby?'

I turn around and back away for a panoramic view of the body attached to the larynx responsible for the sudden outburst of cheese ala Barry White.
The body wobbled slightly on its legs and its hands were shaking.
OK, the man has been lifting some heavy weights...
He did the sheepwalk following me out onto the street.

'Yeah, all right...' , I say and make some visible distance between us.
Is he the one?, with horror I think to myself.

"What's wrong, baby? Do you fear your own shadow? Where you runnin? You'll never get a man if you're like this!", now the fucker really got my goat.

'Oh, bugger off. I prefer women.', ultimate insult in the spirit of progressive Britain. We're in the high street now and my remark has got the lover-boy really going.

'What? You lick pussy!? You gonna spend your life lickin pussy, mun!? You need a dick!'
"A D-I-C-K!', he roars, his voice booms with full power of unleashed testosterone and every man, woman and child in the street feels penetrated, no doubt.

Psycho-babble consisting of rhytmically alternating sexual organ words followed.

My diagnosis is, the man posseses a faulty copy of the FOXP2 gene that only lets him correctly articulate the two words describing organs necessary in initiating a mating process, definitely an evolutionary advantage, however I was not inclined to carry his DNA into the future via a possibly ofensive sounding offspring with a speech impediment.

Treatment?
Cranial hysterectomy - remove pussy from his brain, if there is any up there..

The risk of kick-starting a devolution of the species put my natural instincts on hold.
We (me and the Wobbly Body) will not mate, oh no, it would be a crime against humanity.
He left me alone.

So much for the metaphysical.
I got home.

Rang my best mate and told her I was going to get laid.
She expressed her sympathy for my cause and quickly checked her own horoscope.

Took a shower, lingered in front of the mirror to test my "screwy-eyes" and went to bed early in my best pyjamas.

Not rulling out earthly intervention I left the window in my bedroom slightly open.
I mean where does it say in the rapist's job description: 'Break before entering'..?
And then again, a burglar might feel a bit more romantically inclined towards the victim if he does not have to work too hard to get in.

Passed out.

I hear