A Spiritual Investigation Into Why My Tarot Cards Keep Telling Me To Go Fuck Myself

By Sydney Roth

In-between bong rips and existential ruminations, I often find solace in a $30 tarot deck I bought from Urban Outfitters. Just like that one friend who lacks any sense of personal boundaries, the cards have supported both my rights and wrongs through vague sentiments I can warp into support for my delusions. Lately, though, the deck’s gotten a little crass. 

For instance, I was cleansing my space the other day (without sage because why would you still be doing that) when NWA’s “A Bitch Iz a Bitch” began to play from my phone at full volume. Um, rude AND spooky, I thought to myself. What ghost misogynist has a stick up their butt today? 

I tried moving things along by shuffling the deck, but the Devil and Death cards kept flying out and hitting me square in the face. I eventually got so frustrated with this bumfuck energy that I threw the cards across my room in an effort to protect my peace. But when they landed, the cards lined up perfectly to spell out three unmistakable letters: G, F, and U. The message was pretty clear to me after that.

My main question is… Why? Why does Spirit want me to go and fuck myself? Do they mean it literally? It’s true that I’ve been putting off buying another vibrator after I broke my last one, but come on! Those things are expensive if you want one that lasts! Just cut me a break and let me drive manual for a bit.

Or maybe I’m overthinking things. Maybe Spirit is so fed up with me treating them like a Cosmo sex advice column that they don’t know what to do anymore. I mean, if someone was calling me every few hours for advice on men, of all things, I’d be pissed too. I’d probably give them a wellness check, honestly. And if that didn’t stop them, well, I just wouldn’t know how to help anymore.

Wait a minute. Is Spirit… Trying to hold an intervention? For my tarot use? Are my ancestors just sitting in a circle upstairs with notes on how they’ve been traumatized by my 21st-century gab? It’s entirely possible, considering what I’ve disclosed so far. I also haven’t been outside in almost 72 hours and my phone started playing CeLo Green’s “F**k You” at 3:33 AM this morning. 

Maybe I do need a break. Or advice from some witchy subreddits.