Go away.
Didn't I just tell you to leave? What? You want me to tell you about yourself? What kind of nonsense is that?
Oh, well, if you insist, let me stare into your eyes... jeepers, did you have them replaced with red LEDs? Ga-zong!
If I'm not picking up something from the astral plane, I'm going to need some antibiotics, I think, because this is what I see, about having been born today:
Good gravy are you syrupy! It gets you the admiration of the less discriminating crowds, but nobody feels strongly enough about you to hold you as an enemy. You are snooty in your tastes toward books and entertainment. Your home is filled with sound (you might call it music, but I'm not so sure); you dote on your spoiled children and spend too much time on and in your home. You really should consider including more than your spouse in your life, as your sappy WO-mance is making the rest of us queasy.
See? I told you that you didn't want a reading. At least you're better off than these guys who all died on this date: William Cavendish, Samuel Adams (bring me a brew, darn you!), Dominique François Jean Arago, Svante Arrhenius, Peter D. Ouspensky, Boris Bukreev, Peter Medawar, Paul Halmos Chiyo-ni, Sarah Biffen, Marcel Duchamp, Franz Biebl, Paul Hartman, Roy Harold Scherer, Jr. aka Rock Hudson, Harriet Hilliard Nelson, Paavo Nurmi, Tex Coulter, John André, Charles Lee, Harry Golden, Nipsey Russell,
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