Man, I saw that title for today and just had to laugh. Virgo July Love Horoscope. What a joke. I mean, I did look up my horoscope that one time, the July I’m thinking about. Who hasn’t? We’re all just looking for a sign that things are gonna smooth out, aren’t we? I remember reading some nonsense about “a new connection entering your orbit” and “focusing on inner balance.” Total crap, let me tell you.
That July, my orbit was filled with dust and mold, and my inner balance was shot because I was ready to strangle my landlord. That was the real practice I was going through. Not romantic encounters, but actual survival and resourcefulness. It started the month before, actually, but July was when the hammer dropped. I had been renting this tiny spot, and the landlord—this total sleazeball—decided he was going to hike the rent by some insane percentage because he “updated the entryway.” It was one peeling coat of paint, nothing else. I just flat out refused to pay it.
The Real July Practice: Fighting and Moving
He hit me with a three-day notice. Yep. Three days to move out or face legal action. I was absolutely floored. I’d paid my rent on time for five years. But suddenly, my history meant nothing. The horoscope said, “Be patient in your pursuits.” I threw the printout in the trash. Patience wasn’t going to save my security deposit or keep a roof over my head. My pursuit was a legal battle and a place to sleep.
I immediately got on the phone and spent the next thirty-six hours just talking to tenancy lawyers and housing advocates. I had to dig up every single payment receipt, every text message, and every broken promise he’d ever made about fixing the plumbing or the mold he just ignored. I organized everything into neat little files, which, yeah, I guess is the Virgo coming out, but this wasn’t for love, it was for war. I realized quickly that fighting him legally was going to be a slow, draining process, and frankly, I just wanted out of that toxic building. The practical choice was to find a new place, fast, and then pursue the recovery of my deposit after I was safe.
The practice shifted completely. The next stage was a frantic, terrifying race against the clock. I had to:
- Identify target neighborhoods that I could actually afford.
- Cold call maybe sixty different listings in two days.
- Schedule and attend ten rushed viewings while pretending to be totally calm and not smelling of sweat and desperation.
- Bargain with a moving company on short notice, which cost me a fortune.
I finally settled on a little two-bedroom place. It was a complete dump, honestly. The walls were yellow, the carpet was ancient, and it smelled like old dog and bad cooking. But it was mine for the lease period, and the landlord seemed normal, which was a huge win right there. I signed the papers on a Monday and was packing the van by Tuesday morning, sweating bullets the whole time. My friends rallied, thank God. They drove over, and we just started throwing things into boxes. That was my “deepening bond” that month—the bond with my buddies who showed up with pizza and beer and didn’t ask stupid questions.
Finding Stability Where the Stars Didn’t Shine
I moved in on the 15th of July, right when the horoscope said I should be enjoying a “romantic weekend getaway.” I was enjoying a weekend of scraping mold off a bathroom wall with a wire brush. That was my reality. And that’s what this whole practice thing is about—it’s about what you actually do when the universe throws garbage at you, not what some star chart says you should be doing.
The next two weeks were just non-stop labor. I realized that if I was going to be here, I was going to make it truly livable. I wasn’t just going to cover up the problems; I was going to fix them. I went out, bought a drill, a bunch of spackle, and maybe fifteen gallons of paint. I watched endless YouTube videos on how to patch drywall and refinish cabinets. I got sawdust in my hair and paint all over my clothes. That was the practical application of my time.
I spent days on my hands and knees, tearing out that gross carpet, hauling bags of garbage out to the curb. My arms ached, my back was killing me, but with every patch I put on the wall and every coat of clean, white paint I slapped on, I felt stronger. I was taking control. I was building a nest, not waiting for some new connection to magically appear and solve my problems.
By the end of July, I was exhausted, but the place looked a hundred times better. I had a clean, safe, quiet spot. And the real kicker? The day I finished painting the kitchen, I got the letter from the old landlord’s lawyer saying they’d agreed to return my full security deposit just to make me go away. They knew I had them dead to rights. I mean, I did find love that month, I guess. I fell in love with stability, the smell of fresh paint, and the sound of my own tools.
