Crabby? You? Only in the morning. Before lunch. All day Tuesday and most of Sunday. Leap years. At high altitudes and low barometric pressures. Oh, just admit it, Cancer. You're a moody one. You are ruled by the moon after all, and we know what that means: it's always your time of the month. I'd try to cheer you up, but you have the most annoying habit of twisting a compliment into a death sentence. It's one thing to be creative, but however did you get "You look tired" from "You look lovely in pink"? Impossible is what you are! Given the right state of mind, every innocent comment can be a back-handed cutter waiting to be discovered. We love you for your sensitivity. But there are times when we just can't stand your sensitivity. If you're a smart little crab, you'll surround yourself with people you love and trust. It's no guarantee that you won't have your sad days, fat days and Boy George in rehab days, but without a solid home base you'd be miserable.
I don't mean to gnaw on an empty crab shell, Cancer, but you'd better watch it. You're getting a rep. What's that in the corner, wallowing in a pool of snot and self-pity? Oh, just the Piteous Cancerous. You'll find them in the restaurant restrooms, department store dressing rooms, blandly decorated living rooms and garish art-deco rumpus rooms... bad home decoration offends the Cancer's sensibilities. Between sobs, you'll sit the offender down and flip on HGTV or TLC as though you are leading some kind of intervention. If Hildi happens to be terrorizing some poor suburban family on "Trading Spaces," you'll quickly change the channel. And don't pretend you don't know Hildi. You know Hildi. You've been riding the cable television home-improvement craze since it's nascence. And the food network. Especially the food network. Home just isn't home unless the scent of pot roast and strudel knocks your guests over the head from the moment they step across your kitchy straw welcome-mat. You have a license to mother. And people let you, because you do it with a zeal that borders on obsessive compulsive disorder. You embody an army of Italian/Polish/Mexican/Armenian Grandmothers who insist that even the Type II Diabetics among us must be starving. It's hard to resist that kind of charm for long. That, and everybody is afraid of making you cry. And did I mention you make pie? Damn good pie, in fact.
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