✍ CURRENTLY WRITING FROM: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
I grew up a person that scoffed at the zodiac, but, like every mild narcissist and / or young person caught in the constant influx of horoscope memes circulating the internet today (this post has already dated itself and it’s only one sentence in), I appreciate hearing about myself. Or at least, what I’m supposed to be like. Whenever someone does something that either poignantly reflects or deflects me, I ask them what their birthday is.
I’m prone to anxious tendencies, so I’ve naturally worried about what the zodiac means lately. I’m a Virgo. My sister, my best friend, is a Gemini. We’re aggressively incompatible. She doesn’t find this a big deal. I, naturally, do.
I’m obsessive by nature.
I’m not an astrologist, and my knowledge of the zodiac goes as far as astrolocherry updates. But… Dakota Johnson is a Libra and Jamie Dornan is a Taurus and that compatibility is low so it’s no wonder they hate each other, allegedly, so obviously astrology is correct and I’m doomed to never get along with anyone ever again.
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It’s amazing how much the world shrinks when you have anxiety. I’ve been re-reading the posts I wrote while I was still in high school, and reading my words and listening to songs I used to when I was sixteen has re-awakened a lot of the hope I used to feel, reminded me of all the aspirations I used to have. I used to not be afraid of riding on airplanes, now just the thought of being in one for more than thirty seconds makes me nauseous and irritable. My world has gotten so small. I will never leave the American continent again.
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Me obsessing over the Zodiac is inherently selfish and egotistical. Because, subconsciously, I’m trying to decide which kind of person is right for me. And that can be a form of self-care from one perspective, but the principle is still selfish. Like, what am I offering to those people? This is me aligning my principles, maybe other people have a firm belief that they should not associate with people they don’t connect with, but it’s always been my modus operandi to serve and be helpful and make other people feel better and safe and okay. And worrying about whether other people will understand my humor or whether they’ll be easier to communicate with doesn’t seem to be as equally important as being with these people and loving them.
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I don’t know what this says about me, maybe my future Psych major boyfriend can psychoanalyze me (and then I’ll grow up resenting him for it, but subconsciously, it won’t be until years down the road when I’m ready to leave him and flee with our kids and all the carbohydrates in the house in the middle of the night that he’ll intercept me and he’ll shove his hands in his pockets and look down but flick his eyes up and softly say, “It’s cause I tried to psychoanalyze you back in 2016, isn’t it?”), but it’s nearing six o clock in the morning and I haven’t been able to lull myself to sleep all night, so I’m watching the opening scene in Footloose (1984), where many feet are dancing… footloose… and fancy free… and I feel something welling up inside me, are these tears pooling? They are and I feel something growing in my chest, in my heart, and in this very moment I realize that we’re all human beings and we’re all the same and dance connects us, art connects us, expression connects us, we see ourselves reflected in other people through the expression of their emotions! I throw my hands in the air in the dark and I close my eyes! Oh! Oh, what a revelation, says I! I’m on to something here, I really am, and I feel such a fervent love for the human race all of a sudden and and!
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It’s 7:20 am. I sleepily realize it’s 4:20 in Hawaii, and I point finger guns at nobody in particular. A couple of seconds later, I softly wonder to myself whether I could think about growing the hell up anytime soon.
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My hair is shorter since the last time we spoke, Selena Quintanilla short, and it brings me a sense of freedom. Short-lived, of course, since I am also prone to low self-esteem, but every time I look in the mirror, I wonder whether Patti Smith would respect it.
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On the twelfth, I watched First Aid Kit make Patti cry after singing “Dancing Barefoot” to her. I re-watch it with the lights off, and as it closes, I get goosebumps all over my arms and legs. I re-watch it once more, and the Oh God I fell for you repeated by Klara sends shockwaves through my body. I shudder. I watch it one more time. I get goosebumps a third time. At that moment, I wish I was the third Söderberg sister. I wish I had Klara’s youthful bravery and heart, I wish I had Johanna’s mystery and soulful spirit.
I am grateful it’s getting warmer: my spirits will be lifted, and I’ll be able to tiptoe around my home barefoot.
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Trying to lull myself to sleep, I read up on Gram Parsons. I read about his death and my boots get heavy and suddenly, my heart lurches forward and I think about M. and I begin to worry about him with the same intensity I did a week earlier and my eyes dart around the dark and I worry and I worry and I begin to demand answers to a lot impossible questions and I don’t have the answers so I begin to get frustrated and!
And then I slowly recline and I lay on my back and I close my eyes. And I clasp my hands together and press them to my forehead to make it clear that I’m praying and I whisper wishes for him. I telepathically tell him to please stay out of trouble and to maybe bother sending a message that tells me he's okay.
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Writing this had me re-visiting my compatibility with the rest of the signs and I’ve just realized that one site said that I was most compatible with Capricorn, Taurus, Scorpios, and other Virgos, but another site said I was most compatible with Capricorn, Taurus, and Cancer, another said Capricorn and Taurus and Pisces, and I should forget about other Virgos, and now I’ve decided to hell with this… that won’t stop me from indulging in Virgo narcissism in the future, though.
