A Scorpio will call you on a Tuesday to ask if you’re okay when you have told no one you are not okay.
Say the word Scorpio and everyone gets protective of their drink.
It’s the sign of revenge and sex and secrets, and people describe her the way coastal towns describe hurricanes, by year and by what she took. Then the same people will find her at a party and tell her things they have never said out loud in therapy, and they will feel better, and they will not find this strange, and it is strange.
Joni Mitchell is a Scorpio. Marie Curie was a Scorpio who spent her entire life staring into things that glow, which checks out, and won two Nobel Prizes for it.
The sign everyone calls dangerous keeps producing the people who go deeper than anyone else can stand to go, and that contradiction has an explanation. It lives in the moon.
A Scorpio sun is half the woman and the moon finishes her. Depending on which moon she got, you are dealing with one of four completely different creatures: the Medium, the Vault, the Phoenix, and the Novelist. Each one is the best in the zodiac at something, and one of them knew your ending before you did.
Behind the paywall you find out which one you know, which one you are, and how she knew about the Tuesday.