Today is International Astrology Day, which is meant to be a celebration of the zodiac calendar for all astrology enthusiasts, expert and amateur alike.  But, for me, today is simply a sad, sad day.  Please, listen to my tale of woe and weep for me.  And then send me photos of your tears so I can be certain you actually wept for me and didn’t just lie about it like you usually do.


My story begins – as most do – on the day of my birth.  I wish I’d had enough foresight, as I began my slow and sticky descent into this world, to recognize the sort of trouble I’d be getting myself into by being born in late August.  Perhaps if I had been aware of the terrible stigma I would be forced to battle as a hapless Virgo I might have decided to crawl back up my mother’s uterine walls – using my sharp little baby fingernails like ice picks – and bide my time until next month, when I could be safely labeled as a Libra.

But, as tends to happen, I was just a poopy, fleshy mess at the time and had absolutely no idea how much Virgos suck.  Because they suck.  And let me tell you why they suck.

First, there’s the obvious: Virgos are destined to be terrible in the bedroom.  While other zodiac signs get to be named after happy little animals like crabs and fish and scorpions, we Virgos have it worst of all. Whenever my friends and I would discuss our astrological signs – because I had weird friends in high school and that’s what weird friends talk about, typically while shoveling cheese and carrot sandwiches into their mouths – I had to brace myself against an onslaught of taunts and insults that somehow always seemed to stem from my own unfortunate virginity.  Alas, Virgos are the sole sad bunch that can be accused of even remotely resembling their namesake.  I couldn’t very well go up to a Sagittarius and say, “Oh gurl.  You’re such a centaur.  No wonder you were born a Sagittarius.” Or an Aquarius: “Yeah, baby.  You pour water like a pro, Water-Bearer. Lolz.”  And therein lies the problem.

Other faults that are not our own, but are nonetheless attributed to Virgos anyway, include: being perfectionists, being unabashedly truthful, being emotionally distant, and – my personal favorite – being anal-retentive.  I drink my morning coffee out of a mug that lists all these qualities on it, so I can slap myself whenever I start acting “too much like a Virgo.”  In this manner, my battle with Virgo-ness is a bit like the constant internal conflict a vampire or a werewolf might face: we might not have been able to choose the sort of monster we’re destined to become, but we’ll try and hold the beast at bay for as long as we can.  Or, you know, at the very least throw ourselves heroically off a cliff to protect the world from our own personal darkness.

Happy International Astrology Day, everyone!

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