So this Virgo horoscope thing popped up in my feed last week. Figured I’d dig into my old journals to see if those 2020 predictions actually matched my dumpster-fire year. Grabbed my dusty notebook from the shelf, brewed some coffee, and dove in.
The Setup
First, I skimmed all twelve months of Virgo forecasts for 2020. You know the drill – career shifts in April, love drama by August, financial luck in November. Then I flipped open my personal journal from that same year. Page after page of COVID panic, work chaos, and my cat’s obsession with chewing router cables.
Side-by-Side Comparison
Sat at my kitchen table with two columns: horoscope promises vs. reality. Used highlighters like some detective:
- March prediction: “Career breakthroughs!” Reality? Got furloughed on the 18th. Highlighted that sucker in neon pink.
- July promise: “Romantic surprises.” My “surprise” was my plant dying. Highlighted in sad beige.
- November’s “financial windfall” became my unemployment check. Yellow highliner for irony.
By lunchtime, my pages looked like a rainbow puked on them.
The “Accuracy” Moment
Noticed two weird hits though. That “avoid travel” warning for February? I cancelled my Vegas trip on the 29th because of a fever. And December’s “family tension” prediction? Spot-on when my sister fought me over Zoom Christmas decor. But outta twelve months? Two lukewarm matches.
Why Bother Checking?
Honestly? My therapist suggested journaling during lockdown. Found this astrology journal while reorganizing. Thought maybe those vague promises held weight. After seeing my actual chicken-scratch notes next to polished horoscope poetry? Made me realize they’re like fortune cookies – fun until you actually need directions.
Final verdict? Virgo horoscopes nailed 17% of my 2020. The other 83% was just… life. Unpredictable, messy, and definitely not written in stars.
