Honestly, I didn’t set out to become some kind of expert on this weekly garbage. I just got completely burnt out. I was pulling forty-eight-hour shifts getting this legacy system update pushed through at the old firm, the one I won’t name. It was all promises and cheap pizza. I kept hitting a wall, right? Every bug I crushed, two more popped up. I was staring at my monitor, feeling like the universe itself was actively against my merge request.
My buddy, bless his heart, he saw the state I was in. He texted me this screenshot, right? It was one of those “Virgo, this week demands a pause” things. I laughed, but then I clicked the link. I scoffed hard, because I’m a technical guy, I live on logic, but I also needed a break from checking logs. So, I started reading. Not seriously, just to see how utterly generalized the stuff was.
The Great Data Collection Fiasco
Then the analytical side of my brain kicked in. I thought, let’s treat this like an A/B test gone insane. I decided I was going to track every single major “Virgo Weekly” prediction I could find for a whole month. I opened up a spreadsheet—because everything important needs a spreadsheet, obviously—and I started logging.
What I Tracked:
- The exact “Prediction” (e.g., “Financial opportunities arise mid-week”).
- The source (I just called them ‘Source A,’ ‘Source B,’ etc. to keep it clean).
- The “Reality Check” (What actually happened).
- The overall ‘Vagueness Score’ (A subjective 1-5 rating, 5 being totally useless).
I dove in deep. I compiled maybe twenty-five unique forecasts every single Monday morning. I cross-referenced them. I started noticing patterns immediately. They all said the same three things, just shuffled around:
- Be cautious with communication or spending.
- A breakthrough is coming in your career or love life.
- Take time for self-reflection and health.
It was like a bunch of content generators feeding off each other. They weren’t predicting anything. They were just giving boilerplate encouragement wrapped up in cosmic-sounding words. It was exactly like the requirements documents my boss used to write—sounded impressive, but had zero executable content.
The Personal System Crash
This tracking practice went on for six weeks. I was still drowning in work, still getting those vague compliments from management about how “essential” I was. Then the yearly review hit. I walked in, expecting the raise they had been dangling since Q3. I had the data, the logged hours, the successful rollouts. I had earned it, flat out.
My manager sat me down, gave me a massive speech about “unforeseen budget constraints” and “realigning priorities.” He told me I was great, but the money just wasn’t there right now. He predicted a massive bonus for me in the next quarter, maybe. It was the same vague, non-committal crap I had been logging from ‘Astrology King’ Source D all morning.
That was the moment it clicked, the real-world connection. My manager wasn’t managing a team; he was writing a horoscope. He was selling hope with zero data backing it up. He was telling me that good luck was ‘coming soon’ instead of just cutting the check. I suddenly saw the whole corporate structure—the promises, the reviews, the goal-setting—as just another form of cheap, generalized, predictive content designed to keep the subjects (me, my team) pacified and executing.
The Refusal and the Pivot
I walked out of that office and didn’t even go back to my desk. I drove home. I opened my personal laptop, not the corporate one. I looked at my spreadsheet, the one full of meaningless cosmic predictions and checked my final ‘Reality Check’ column: “No raise. All promises nullified.”
I immediately closed the spreadsheet. I deleted the files. It wasn’t the stars that were against me; it was bad management using bad faith generalities. I realized I was spending massive mental bandwidth tracking predictions when I should have been building systems that didn’t require luck. I didn’t need to read about upcoming opportunities; I needed to code them into existence for myself. I didn’t need a weekly guide; I needed a clean exit strategy.
Two days later, I handed in my notice. No negotiation, no counter-offer, just a clean break. They called and called, trying to reel me back in with promises of better pay, better titles, the exact things they had just predicted they couldn’t deliver. I pulled the same move they had pulled on me: silence. I just never picked up the phone. I finally stopped wasting time on the vague future and started actually defining my present, and that’s what this whole side project became—just me, documenting what I actually did, not what some guy said was “coming for me.”
