Sprinting to life’s finish line
also called The Monk, The Sage, The Capuchin, Sad Santa, The Struggling Writer, and Time.
You cannot chop despair into a nice fruit salad.
This card ought not to exist.
Make haste, make waves, or at least a cloud of ink.
Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern… three wishes… celebrity deaths come in threes or two-thousand-sixteens…
Hello? Am I online? Can anyone read this message? I do not know where we are
“Hello, this is Hector from Hector the Spectre Collector. Unfortunately, we are all booked up until next week. If you …
Uh, hi, tarot blogger lady? It’s Colin. One of the ghosts? We didn’t interrupt your last post! That voice in …
beware. beware! fear the coming darkness.
You have many stories to tell. No one listens anymore.
The rocks are slippery. Recovery is slippery. Angels hate getting their down feathers wet.
If an oracle tells you that you will be devoured by sharks tomorrow at 3:16 p.m. and 47 seconds, do not drive further inland! Humanity barely survived the last four sharknado tragedies.
To avoid ultimate defeat, wise Tarot readers will insist that you do something monumentally stupid upon pulling a seven.
“We will (grudgingly) stop wailing obscenities in your ears at three in the morning. This is a big sacrifice for us. Your reactions are priceless! Oh man, we wish you could see how you look! What a bunch of dweebs!”
Chamaeleonids are especially tickled pink by the opportunity.
What? No! Wrong way! We’ll be run over by massive fifteenth century carts with lift kits and fake nuts tied to the back!
If you’re reading this from the future (yay, that means the internet still works!)…
It has come to my attention that today marks the one-hundredth Terrible Tarot post. I, and the nice young woman who uploads my humble scribblings, would like to thank our readers, all four of you.