Happy Scorpio-into-Sagittarius season, readers! This month, to honor a famous Sagittarius, and because this astrologer is starting to run out of ideas, all horoscopes will focus on the highs and lows of New York at midnight, that mystifying, mad hour that can be dark, starry, cloudy, terrifying, electrifying, hot, cold, romantic, or rife with Uber surge pricing. Here, you'll find nightmare scenarios, intrusive thoughts, general instruction from the planets, and only one stolen "Midnights" lyric, because we're not aiming to get sued!
Two other things to look for this month: On October 30, the planets hit us with something called "Mars retrograde," which is about as scientific as Mercury retrograde but reportedly comes with some added chaos. And most importantly, on November 8, we're also getting something called the "Full Beaver Moon," which will also be a lunar eclipse and which reportedly will lead to "monumental shifts" of some sort. That shift could mean that a sentient New York Post headline could scaremonger his way into the governor's mansion, which is a good reminder to make a plan to vote for Kathy Hochul, preferably on the Working Families Party line, ahead of the November 8 midterms. The planets demand it. (Early voting ends on November 6, and much like the planets shift in both time and space, our early voting locations shift with each election as well, thanks to the mysterious inner workings of the BOE—be sure to consult the stars and find your early voting location here.)
SCORPIO (October 23-November 22)
It's your special month, Scorpio, but what does that mean? Do you get older, but never wiser? Are you facing middle age with the finances of a Forever 21? Have you used up all your savings on wash-and-fold laundry and broker fees? Are your midnight hours filled with the ghosts of cheaper cities you could have moved to when you had the chance? Things won't get better—just something to consider as you weave in and out of consciousness on the anniversary of your birth, realizing that unlike your parents, you will never be able to afford to have children.
SAGITTARIUS (November 23-December 21)
Your landlord turned on the heat in the middle of October, which is good news for your physical comfort but less good news for your REM cycle, which is now punctuated with the demonic hiss and rattle of your building's century-old boiler pipes. So far, this has been annoying but expected. And yet, when the full moon hits on November 8, the hiss begins to shift into something far more sinister. You swear you can make out human words. The boiler system is definitely saying, "KILL…KILL." On second thought, maybe it's saying, "Krill…Krill"? Perhaps the pipes are haunted by the ghost of an arctic whale? This happens for five straight nights, until you finally give in and call your super, who bleeds the radiator for you. You never hear the demonic voice again, but your radiator leaks now.
CAPRICORN (December 22-January 19)
The partner you moved in with after three months of dating in order to save on rent has snore-coughed in your ear FOR THE LAST DAMN TIME.
AQUARIUS (January 20-February 18)
Every morning, you wake up feeling empty, like a piece of you has gone missing in the night. You chalk it up to loneliness, anxiety, the endless ups and downs of living in a society gone mad. Don't we all feel like we're losing ourselves all the time? Actually, though, it turns out your cat Frances has been nibbling on you while you sleep, something you discover when you wake up one day without your eyes. It's your own fault for insulting Frances with Meow Mix when you know she's a Fancy Feast princess.
PISCES (February 19-March 20)
The bedbugs are planning a Thanksgiving feast. In the witching hour, a sauce is simmering, the aroma wafting up from their home in your box spring. They are preparing to baste their main course, but what is it? You find out soon enough: Ah yes, it's your feet.
ARIES (March 21-April 19)
You sleep pretty well this month, actually. No complaints here.
TAURUS (April 20-May 20)
While walking home from a late night in East Williamsburg, you come across "King Kong," a 12-foot skeleton who temporarily resides outside of Williamsburg Wine & Liquor. Recognizing this tall fellow from Hell Gate's famed Skeleton Map, as you are a person with the finest of tastes in news, you stop to take a pic. And that's when it happens—King Kong WINKS at you. No, you don't understand how a skeleton, which notably doesn't have eyelids or any skin at all, managed to wink, but you know that it happened. You saw it. You are certain. You hope you were quick enough to capture the wink via your iPhone’s Live photo feature, but alas, it was in night mode. No one will ever believe you, but you—and King Kong—know the truth.
GEMINI (May 21-June 21)
Your neighbors get a new dog! It's very cute. Also, it barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And ba-
CANCER (June 22-July 22)
Your rent is going up $125 per month when the lease renews, which is just enough to blow your budget but not quite enough to justify the financial and emotional cost of a move. Your midnights are spent sleeplessly calculating which expenditures you need to drop, which, per your bedtime math, includes everything fun and possibly also electricity. If they could survive without working lights in the 1800s, so can you.
LEO (July 23-August 22)
You become convinced your corner bodega is haunted. You are beset with an unexpected chill even before you open the refrigerator door to get a Red Bull. The man who makes your late-night sandwich is the same one in the photo on the wall from 1921. The kitten who lives in the pantry section is an ancient god that helps collect souls. All the spaghetti sauce expired before you were born.
VIRGO (August 23-September 22)
One midnight, shortly after the new moon in Taurus, you will be sleeping soundly in your bed when a mysterious rustling suddenly rouses you from your slumber. In the dark of your room—well, semi-dark, considering you live across the street from a store that takes its decor inspiration from an all-night disco—you trace the rustling to the paper bag from the Thai delivery place that you left on your floor last week. The rustling stops for a minute, then continues. The bag visibly shakes. You briefly consider picking up the bag and tossing it out, but decide the best course of action is to go back to sleep. You wake up the next morning and the bag is gone.
LIBRA (September 23-October 22)
Midnights in November are much like every night for you: full of disparate panic thoughts. Need to take out the recycling. Get sink fixed. Will my son look weird when he grows up? Fall of democracy. Remember to pay National Grid bill. Where do bikes go when they die? Have to be up in six hours, MUST SLEEP. Is that the smoke detector or the neighbor’s TV? Recycling. Will the Adams and Zeldin co-leadership years be so powerfully horrific that the magic underground crystals stage a coup and swallow the entire city whole? MUST SLEEP. God, nighttime is the worst.
