Hey Guru,
My enby situationship keeps ghosting me unless Mercury is in Gatorade—how do I establish boundaries with someone who consults their haunted doll before texting back?
First off, let me just say—I think you’re the only person whose advice I would trust to navigate this level of astrological fuckery and paranormal nonsense. Everyone else just blinks and nods like I’ve coughed up a tooth into their drink.
So here’s the thing: I’ve been entangled in what I believe is a situationship with this unbelievably hot, deeply chaotic enby named Laike (pronounced like “lake,” but spelled like a cry for help). Things were going great—we kissed under a blood moon, bonded over our shared hatred of binary pronouns, and even hexed a TERF together using nothing but nail clippings and a VHS of Practical Magic. Love was in the air. Or possibly mildew. Hard to tell.
But lately, they’ve been ghosting me—like full disappearing act—unless Mercury is in what they call “optimal aquatic alignment,” which I think means retrograde, but they keep saying “Gatorade” with the sort of seriousness usually reserved for war crimes or Buffy reruns. If Mercury’s out of the imaginary electrolyte pool? Poof. No texts. No calls. No late-night visits where they make me sniff their essential oils and tell me my aura smells like fermented moonlight.
Here’s the kicker—and I swear on my houseplants this is real: Laike claims they can’t communicate until their haunted doll, Gregory (he wears a tuxedo and holds a single cigarette), “approves the energetic vibe.” Last time I brought up feelings, Gregory fell over on his own and started leaking some kind of viscous dark fluid that smelled like licorice and regret. Laike said that was his way of saying “not now.”
Now, I get that we’re in a non-labeled, spiritually freeform zone of entanglement. I’m not asking for vows under moonlight or matching tattoos of obscure sigils. But is it too much to want the person I’m sleeping with to occasionally respond to a text without first consulting a haunted ventriloquist’s prop and asking an astrology subreddit for charts to determine whether or not to leave me on read for 7 hours?
I’m spinning. Last night—despite never really buying into the occult—I lit a candle just to feel something, and accidentally summoned a vision of my high school gym teacher in her underwear. The crush I had on her evaporated instantly when I saw she doesn’t shave her armpits. No judgment—people can do what they want with their bodies—but I’ve devoted my life to laser hair removal. I crave smoothness on a spiritual level.
Why the cosmos chooses a time like now to gift me hairy revelations feels less like fate and more like coordinated terrorist unprovoked action in the universe’s latest campaign of personal attacks against me.
Guru, why do the stars hate me so bad? Feeling spiritually ghosted and left adrift in the void,
o
Emotionally Hexed in Houston
Dear Emotionally Hexed in Houston,
Perhaps the stars don’t loathe you—they’re just appalled you keep loitering at the ritual like a goth wedding crasher with a cracked chalice and no invitation. You wear disbelief like a discount robe, muttering over Laike’s oils and lighting your little wick like it’s not a — wie sagt man? — Gebet. You mock the altar, yet you hover near its heat.
And Laike? Laike may not even know what they’re doing—but at least they’re doing it with their whole chest. They may confuse retrogrades with rehydration and wield Gregory like a sentient mood ring, but they are answering the call. Loudly. Sloppily. With conviction. That matters. The Universe listens more keenly to an earnest fool than to a wise skeptic who won’t knock on the door.
You, on the other hand, have been circling. Stalling. Halfway between mockery and mysticism. From my perspective, it appears your partner is receiving preference because they have presented the universe with a less precarious proposition, passionately practicing their philosophies with reference and prostration as you piss in the peripheral places, tracing imperfect parabolas along the perimeter of the rim. You might benefit profoundly if you are open to the prospect of pulling down your half-removed pragmatic pants and plopping a poop in the proverbial pot yourself.
That’s what the Universe desires, darling. Not dalliance—devotion. It wants pentagrams sketched in grave dust and daggers licked clean before being laid on velvet. Whispered oaths at midnight. Smoke rising from a sigil-drenched floor. Blood kissed from fingers in flickering candlelight. This isn’t dancing in moonbeams—it’s discipline, descent, dominion. The Universe doesn’t coddle dilettantes. It isn’t ignoring you—it’s daring you to enter fully, with ash-stained feet and pupils wide with purpose.
This was never just about Laike. They were the door. The doll and the diagrams, the oils and offerings—all of it, dispatches from something deeper. And that deeper thing? It’s been watching you. You’ve flirted at the fringe long enough. Now the void wants a vow. And you, dear, are already halfway unwrapped. The candle burned. The veil lifted. You are dehaired and nearly initiated.
So descend. Not gently. With deliberate abandon. Draft your rite. Bleed for your altar. Speak names not meant for daylight and gaze into Gregory’s black-button eyes, whispering, “I am not your puppet—I am your peer.” Then blaspheme his profane purpose by pressing, with solemn pressure, a kiss upon his ceramic lips.
Say: “Step aside, Chucky. Time to fuck off, and get behind me because I’m here to claim my place.” Yassssss! Slayyyyyyyy! If you said that it would be soooo cunt. Remember that line because I can see you now: walking toward them, ready to make your first move and absorb yourself absolutely into their union. The couple is dismantled, then rebuilt. It happens in a millisecond and the likeness the Universe longed for originally is all that remains: the throuple—that deliciously dangerous buzzword your mother heard on a talk show and spent the following month warning the church group about. You and Laike and the Universe: a duo of devout disciples and the dark deity of their devotion. Devour it. Digest it. Watch your power pulse outward until you no longer recognize the shape of your own reflection!
This doesn’t need to collapse. It can evolve. Laike chants, you command, and the Universe—dark and drooling with delight—lies in wait at the convergence of your intent. But abandon ambiguity. No soft hearts. If you want adoration from the arcane, arrive adorned in dread, dripping in deliberation. Chant—badly but boldly. Draw the circle. Scribe the seal. Don’t wait for Laike. Write your own doctrine…
And if the stars still don’t speak?
At least you dared. At least you declared. At least something sacred saw you.
Because if you’re going to be ghosted, darling—don’t let it be by the whim of a doll dribbling prophecy from its droll porcelain mouth. Let it be by gods.
And remember: planets need electrolytes too.
Probably.
Dutifully, Darkly and Deeply Yours,
Anus Queer, Advice Aficionado
Dread Ostian & Metaphysical Threesome Negotiator