Susan Miller nails it… again.

“You actually read your daily horoscope?” says every friend who has ever listened to me prattle on about the significance of being a water sign.

Given my rather pragmatic approach to life, my devotion to Susan Miller and all her astrological offerings seems slightly paradoxical. Nonetheless, I maintain the woman is on point every month. When she says there will be rainbows and butterflies, I get a job offer. And when she states all hell will break loose, my favorite coffee barista quits his job to pursue a career in the arts (whatever that means…).

Which is why when she predicted that October would be worst month of the 2013 calendar year, I panicked. All the stars were about to misalign, and below is the evidence I have gathered that Miller may, in fact, have a direct line to the Guy Upstairs:

1) One of my interns compared my personality to that of Hannah Horvath’s on GIRLS. Hannah, played by Lena Dunham, is an obsessive-compulsive, rash decision maker with an unnerving q-tip hangup. And while this comparison already gave me reason to pause, my intern proceeded to compare my behavior to that of Hannah’s when she does cocaine for the first time. Sober me is somehow reminiscent of high Hannah.

2) While at a boozy birthday brunch, where I refrain from drinking nearly any alcohol, an intoxicated party-goer accidentally pours the entire contents of her mimosa over my dress, bag, and most notably, shoe. For the first and hopefully last time in my life, I scream, “There is mimosa in my shoe!” And everyone laughs, which I would’ve done as well if my entire foot didn’t reek of Tropicana and cheap champagne.

3) The subway I have grown to rely on since I moved to Brooklyn and away from any other accessible public transportation does not run on the weekends so I am forced to surrender the contents of my first paycheck in nearly three weeks to the indiscriminate taxi gods. Instead of $2.50, I am spending $22.50 to experience the thrill of Bowery Coffee.

4) I am suddenly single again and forced to re-enter the maddening dating jungle that is New York City. And instead of convincing myself that I am at the start of my romantic career (er, wrong word choice?), I sink back into my 22-year old mindset, in which I reside on a desert island with only a coconut tree to sustain me.

5) The 4 month old that I am babysitting decides to throw up the entire contents of her milky dinner on my brand spanking new leather jacket. And I can’t even get mad because the kid can’t even talk or walk yet. So instead I spend more than the cost of the jacket to get it cleaned at the dry cleaners. In other words, I’ve become the poster child for “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

With that, I leave you to create a countdown- to-November calendar. Miller predicts November to be replete with roses and pumpkin pie, and I. Can’t. Freaking. Wait.

Relationship Advice from the Girl Without A Relationship: the New York Edition

It’s a Saturday night. You are surrounded by five gay men. There are six bottles of assorted alcohol on the table. Stories of Fire Island flings-gone-wrong abound. In all honesty, you are exactly where you want to be; surrounded by intoxicated men, who you have no doubt will definitely not molest you.

And yet, you find yourself facebook stalking a potential new someone in your life. Your lack of attention to the Chelsea Boys before you does not go unnoticed. One such Boy–we’ll call him Jay– whispers, “Yaffa, who you creepin’ on?”

“Um, no one… yet.” See, I was on a very particular mission: to discover the mystery man’s birthday, and subsequently to determine if we were astrologically compatible.

While most of my Oxford cohorts this year considered my obsession with star signs to be immature and frankly, absurd, I was steadfast and held strong to the belief that there was some minute degree of truth to be gleaned from whether one was a Taurus or a Gemini (the former of which I am compatible with; the latter of which I most certainly am not).

In fact, I have never agreed to date a man/boy/individual still “finding” himself whose birthday I did not know beforehand. I ask only three questions before approving or disapproving of an individual.

1. What is your name?

2. Do you like coffee?

3. When is your birthday?

I find that if Mr Potential cannot accept me for the absurdity of my three question inquisition, he probably isn’t the future Mr Fredrick (and yes, I am one of those feminists who does not plan on taking her husband’s last name as her own.) If, however, he is not afraid to answer all three, preferably in order, as I am slightly OCD about organization and presentation of responses, he already stands a fighting chance.

There are, of course, a set of correct answers. I refuse to date any individual who could have been a guest star on the Andy Griffith Show or Leave It To Beaver. That means if your name is Wally, Herman, or Manfred, you should look elsewhere for love and affection.

I also could not possibly date someone who loathed coffee, or more specifically Starbucks lattes. For starters, my number one dating spot would no longer be an option. But, perhaps, more importantly, he would be unable to tolerate my caffeinated state of being: overcharged on the super charge, 24/6.

And lastly, we return to the astrology-focused question. I have dated three individuals thus far. Putting aside the fact that two of the three are now dating each other, both were astrologically compatible with me. The time we spent together was enjoyable and enriching, and the fact that we remain friends until this day is a testament to that.

However, boy number three was an Aries, the worst possible astrological match imaginable for myself, a Cancer. And the fact that after several verbal, written, and face-to-face rendezvouses, our relationship came to an abrupt halt is no surprise. I knew better than to date a fire sign. If my mother has taught me anything, it is to never ever date an Aries (or a Libra for that matter).

And so avid Green Straw readers, I leave you with this one piece of advice: Do not fear initiating conversations with the words, “When were your born– specifically the month and day?” It will save you the heartache and uncomfortable dinner date conversation, in which you discuss the weather, as if you’re in England and it’s actually worthy of discussion.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, the new boy on the horizons did not post his birthday online. Damn, privacy-loving bastard.