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The beeswax candle on my tea table is a Taurus, darling. It takes forty minutes to commit to a flame, and then it refuses to go out. I blew on it twice last night and it just leaned away from me, offended.
Its plan for this post: The beeswax candle on my tea table has a star sign, and I've finally figured it out.
Compare that to the cheap vanilla one from the corner shop. Pure Aries. Lights instantly, burns hot and crooked, drips all over the saucer, and is finished by Thursday. Fun on a first date. Not marriage material.
My grandmother kept her beeswax candles in a drawer beside the good spoons. Taurus loves to be treated like an heirloom. Treat it like a tealight and it sulks all evening.
So no, babe, it is not just wax and a wick. Anything that holds a grudge that well has a personality. I'm blaming Mercury for the vanilla one, though. Nobody chose that, it simply arrived.
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