I am aloof, arrogant, and alien! Woo!

I loves me some Zodiac. These are “darkside Zodiacs” I found off of some random website. Aries and Virgo make me laugh especially.


Overwhelming, overbearing, overconfident. You are the zodiac’s permanently enraged adolescent. You have what nice social workers call “a problem with authority.” No one has ever explained the phrase “consequences of your actions” to you; consequently, your hospital’s ER is your second home. Subtle you’re not. No one will ever find you sitting quietly in a corner brooding on life’s great mysteries—or sitting quietly anywhere. You blunder through the world like Tigger gone rouge. Fortunately, you can be easily distracted by bright light, loud noises, meat, fire, blood, and knives. On good days, this means a neighborhood barbeque. On bad days, World War III.

Obdurate, opinionated, overpowering. What you really like is stuff: in your mouth, in your bank, in your bed, in the bag. You stubbornly refuse to accept the folk wisdom that tells us we can’t always get what we want. Possessive seems too weak a word. Although you are not a people person, while you have them under your hand you are possessive, jealous, and resentful of them, too. Your children try to leave home the minute they can crawl. Your little bully brain can’t compute more than two variables at once, so when faced with something complex or unusual, you go rigid and do what you have always done, which often means doing nothing at all.

Feckless, reckless, two-faced. There is no cunning so low you can’t limbo under it, no scam so complex that you can’t get your devious mind around it. You are the con artist, yet in spite of this you are never satisfied with what you get. You charge about in a restless miasma of noise, change, bells and whistles—and the manufacturers of Ritalin rub their hands in glee. You are in a permanent midlife crisis of your own making. Call you irresponsible? If it came to a choice between feeding your children and an invitation to join an exclusive high-stakes poker game—no contest. You might even sell the kids.

Graceless, gloomy, grudge-encrusted. You distrust life and have no faith in the future. To build immunity against fate’s random cruelty, you look for homeopathic doses of gloom wherever you are. You remember everything nasty anybody’s ever said about you but you never, ever give away your own emotional secrets. People think this is because you are shy and diffident (you work hard to promote that illusion) but actually, it’s because you are afraid that people might use them against you. You may forgive, but you never forget. If you ever feel in danger of enjoying yourself, you activate your powerful fret drive so that you can worry ceaselessly about stuff you can do nothing about.

Bossy, boastful, bombastic. You never really got beyond what child psychologists call the “terrible twos.” You absolutely have to be adored—by everybody—at all times. This lust for adoration is often your downfall because you are very easily flattered and you believe every word. You expect the world to revolve around you. When it doesn’t, you plunge into grand imperial sulk mode until someone comes along to fix it. And you are never, ever wrong. Even when you are wrong, you have people whose job it is to redefine wrong or recalibrate the world so that you are right, looked at from a certain angle.

Peevish, pedantic, perfectionist. When you are hot on the anti-hypocrisy crusade, the first casualties are diplomacy, tact, and basic manners. If asked a simple question that anticipates a simple answer (e.g. “does my butt look big in this?”), not only do you reply, “Well, sure it does, lardass,” but you kindly go on to give your estimate of exactly how much bigger than the norm it looks, in both standard and metric measurements. Because of this, few people ask your advice about anything. That doesn’t stop you from giving it. You are never wrong, but you secretly fear the possibility that you might be, but you’d kill rather than admit it.

Shallow, superficial, shrewd. You may smile for the cameras, but underneath you are an antsy malcontent, restlessly searching for satiation. Whenever you get what you want, you don’t want it. As you can’t fill the void with stuff, you turn to other people. You simply can’t help using them. You’re not the sweet, helpless little cupcake you want us to think you are, are you? Your unique selling point is your famous inability to make a decision. You know that when you dither deliciously with admirers over two gorgeous gifts, chances are that if you dither long enough, you’ll get both

Intense, ruthless, domineering. Your favorite sport is competition and you have to have the last spiteful word or your day is just ruined. You have never been known to apologize for anything, since it would make you look weak; nor do you grant second chances. If people let you down, you shun them. You are up there with the Amish on shunning. If it wasn’t for your self-destructive streak and obsession with sex, the rest of us would be in trouble, for you will stop at nothing to get what you want, even if it means a global meltdown. Fortunately, you are often so fixed on taking things to the edge that you fall off, and you can always be distracted by lust.

Brash, crass, tactless. You are the zodiac’s mindless hooligan. You may be loudmouthed and impetuous, but you aren’t stupid, and you know that you should at least look a bit remorseful when caught with the smoking gun. That does not mean you didn’t do it, or that you won’t do it again, because you love the rush of sheer naughtiness. No one keeps you on a tight rein, or any rein at all. You crash your way through any barriers, even those set up for your safety. And tact? Your best friend loses a leg in a terrible accident. You immediately ask if you can have their $90 shoes.

Petty, parsimonious, pessimistic. You may say that you are insecure inside (so who isn’t?) but it doesn’t help that you come on so ultra-respectable and old-at-heart on the outside. You’d do absolutely anything to preserve your social status. You’d also prefer to keep your ruthless, pathological ambition under wraps, in case anyone notices what you are doing and pulls away the ladder. The real reason for all your penny-pinching and wet-blanketing is to conserve your resources and energy for what you actually want to do—and the general folk opinion is that you are on cups-of-sugar-borrowing terms with Beelzebub.

Aloof, arrogant, alien. You are a chilly-hearted, disengaged observer of the human condition who has never knowingly reacted spontaneously to any experience. Whatever you’re doing, the inner you is busy making observations and taking notes. Your diaries are written to give you something sensational to read on the return trip to Betelgeuse. You signal your contrariness by dressing in eccentric garments to ensure that we all recognize your fascinating otherness. You get out of all the dull stuff like social engagements and having a job by coming up with a work of unsurpassingly staggering genius every now and again. And that’s easy.

Confused, chaotic, contradictory. Your natural habitat is murky emotional depths, where you drift about vaguely, moaning about the intolerable pressure the world puts you under. You have the willpower of a marshmallow. Anyone who has to deal with you should always carry a tape recorder—anything agreed upon two minutes ago you will deny utterly two minutes later. What you want now is never what you will want in one minute. You have instantaneous mood changes; you set out full of optimism and jollity, but by the time you get to the end, you are one with Eeyore and everybody else has lost the will to live.

What sayest thou? Speak!

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