My autobiography, as written by the stars and interpreted by me

A meditation on all my astrological placements

I’ve never really identified with my sun sign.

I am a Cancer sun, and according to most pop astrology takes, I am overemotional, clingy, passive-aggressive, comforting, nurturing, and (ugh) maternal. Cancers are Moon-ruled, so our emotions are supposed to wax and wane from dark to light, light to dark, inconstant and inconsistent. Moody, that’s the word. Cancers are supposed to be moody.

I hate it.

They say that sometimes you hate that which reflects only the darkest parts of yourself, a nemesis or the shadow that trails you everywhere you go. It would follow then that my inability to connect with my sun sign is only because because I haven’t loved my flaws enough to accept them, that once I name those tender hurts within myself, I will find true understanding and healing.

But none of Cancer’s traits are my wounds.

I have many flaws—I can be insensitive, unable to read a room, emotionally distant, quick to ghost friendships and relationships—but I am neither overemotional nor clingy, passive-aggressive nor moody. Especially not moody. I know a thing or two about moods; I have bipolar disorder, after all.

But perhaps I don’t hate my sun sign. Perhaps I feel alienated by it.

I stand before the dark mirror of Cancer and search my reflection for the parts of myself I can recognize. The parts that look familiar, even as they are ugly, unflattering, uncomfortable. I search and I search and I search, and I find nothing.

Instead, I see Instagram mood boards of cozy cottages, Scandinavian knitwear, large mugs of tea, a cat, stacks of books old and new. I see worn but plush armchairs, conversations with your lover about your complicated pasts, curled up before a fire in the hearth. Cancer is Taylor Swift’s folkore and evermore, with her tousled blonde braids and cardigans and woods. It is a steaming mug of tea held in two mittened hands as snowflakes artfully fall into and around the cup. Cancer is cottagecore, a word that somehow manages to offend every sensibility—from the visceral to the visual. The aesthetic is just so…white.

I stand before the mirror, and realize that I can’t see myself because I’m standing before a window, not a mirror. Gazing at the cozy Cancerian scene inside, I feel cold, abandoned, isolated. I am a stray left out in the snow when all I want to do is belong.

This feeling is familiar to me. I am the child of an immigrant after all.

I discovered natal astrology (also known as birth chart astrology) in my early twenties. I was frequenting the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab forums a lot back then, mostly for reviews for each of their scents, when I came across the more occult parts. Threads with members chatting jovially about their witchy interests—from tarot to spellwork, herbology to astrology. One of the ladies on one of these natal astrology threads very kindly interpreted my chart chart for me for my 22nd birthday.

I became obsessed.

It was like watching a show in the planetarium at Griffith Observatory. The dome opened, revealing more and more of the heavens, slice by slice. I was contained far more multitudes than moodiness, coziness, and emotional intuitiveness. I contained the entire zodiac.

Astrology has always interested me. It is the more complex and (now) less controversial version of the Hogwarts Sorting Hat system, a way to figure out who you are according to archetypes deeply embedded in the Western psyche. Astrology is like the greatest Buzzfeed quiz ever, like figuring out which Greek deity is my godly parent, or which Grisha order I belong to, or whether or not I’m Erudite, Dauntless, or Divergent. Astrology interests me because it a quest for identity made tangible.

I’ve always been drawn to witchy, “new Age” sorts of things—magic, is what I called it as a child. This sense of the numinous, this belief and connection to forces greater than me that I could neither encompass nor comprehend. But I am also a skeptic, hedging my bets and equivocating about faith. I believe, yet do not believe, in magic.

The study of the stars has always had a divinatory and scientific component. Our earliest ancestors traced the night sky with constellations, and tracked the movements of planets along the celestial path of the sun—that which we call the elliptic. Nearly every point in astrology has a physical or scientific correlation in astronomy, but where astronomy seeks to quantify the stars, astrology seeks to interpret the stories we think the stars are telling us. It’s human nature to tell stories. We make them up about absolutely everything.

A birth chart is a snapshot of the skies at the time of your birth. It is also a collection of ideas and stories and tropes scattered along the elliptic. It’s like being given a bunch of keywords or prompts to get your creativity flowing, but it’s still up to you to write the story of your life yourself. I’ve spent a lot of time studying these tropes, writing and revising my autobiography as I understand them. The stars write my biography, I merely translate it into living.

So here is my autobiography, written by the stars and translated by me.

Aquarius rising and Jupiter in Aquarius in the first house

I was born late at night on July the 9th, when the sign of the Water Bearer was on the eastern horizon. Jupiter too, was rising in the eastern sky as I came into the world, my celestial herald by only 2 degrees—a little less than 10 minutes.

They say Jupiter in the first house has a jovial aspect, a cheerful countenance, and massive Big Dick Energy. Jupiter is considered the greater benefic in Hellenistic astrology—the most beneficial or helpful planet—and that innate sense of optimism and good fortune is probably what contributes to us 1st house Jupiterians’ (most likely unearned) self-confidence. It also helps that those of us with prominent Jupiter placements are considered lucky, and I—depending on whether or not you read my chart with the Placidus or whole sign system—can be considered lucky in the lightning strikes twice sort of way. The I got shot on the battlefield but a letter from my lover in my breast pocket stopped the bullet sort of way.

Despite that, it isn’t as though Jupiter hasn’t given me trouble over the years. Jupiter is the planet of expansion, and those of us with Jupiter in the first house know what it’s like for our waistlines to expand at the drop of a hat. Jupiter also tends toward overindulgence, a dangerous placement for someone with bipolar disorder like myself. And because I was born at night, Jupiter isn’t actually the most helpful planet in my chart.

My Jupiter, like most other people born in the same year, my 동갑 (dong-gap), is in Aquarius. In the East Asian zodiac, this means that almost all those born in the year of the Ox have Aquarian Jupiters, as it takes 12 years for Jupiter to traverse the elliptic, spending on average 1 year in each sign. Koreans refer to others born in the same year as you 동갑, and those born in the same-sign Jupiter years 띠동갑 (ddi dong-gap). Jungkook from BTS and Barack Obama and I are all 띠동갑 because we all were born in years of the Ox, when Jupiter was in the sign of Aquarius. Obama even has a first house Jupiter like me, as we are both Aquarius risings.

In traditional astrology, before the discovery of Uranus in the 18th century, both Capricorn and Aquarius were ruled by Saturn, the last planet visible to the naked eye from Earth. If Jupiter is the planet of expansion and the greater benefic, then Saturn is the planet of boundaries and the greater malefic. Before Aquarius absorbed the revolutionary and eccentric significations of Uranus, it was the diurnal domicile of Saturn, and it used to be considered a lot more structured and lot less weird.

Which makes sense for those us born in the years of the Ox. The Ox is patient, hardworking, loyal, generous; in fact, the Ox’s closest Western zodiac equivalent is the sign of Capricorn. Aquarian Jupiters are caught between the yoke of Saturn and the untrammeled meadows of Jupiter. The push and pull between society and what society could be defines our philosophy and belief systems. Jupiter doesn’t just rule good fortune; it also rules faith. Oxen are optimistic about humanity, perhaps to our detriment.

For me, this is perhaps incredibly evident because Jupiter is in my first. The first house used to be called The Helm, as in the helm of a ship, steering the entire person. It is the house of appearance and personality, the doorway into the house that contains the entirety of you. The ascendant (or rising)—the point on the horizon at the exact moment of your birth—literally determines everything about you, the shutter click that freezes an image of the heavens the instant you came into the world. All natal chart house systems are configured from the ascendant. Traditional astrologers used to write horoscopes for the rising sign, not the sun sign, because the ascendant determined the placement of the houses.

I am Aquarius rising, which means I look through my doorway out to the world as an Aquarian, and the world looks back at me as the same. Aquarius is the Water Bearer, pouring life into the great celestial river. It has always been the sign concerned with the collective and the big picture, perhaps at the expense of the individual and more practical matters. Aquarius is a deeply humanitarian sign but a bit detached, perhaps. Both Saturnian signs are concerned with structures—Capricorn with making sure they’re sound, Aquarius with assessing whether or not they need to be torn down and rebuilt. Aquarians have an innate tendency to stand outside the boundaries and get a different perspective, which is why they have a reputation for eccentricity, although some might call that revolutionary.

I don’t mind either, to be honest.

Aries moon

Aries moons can be summed up in one word: CHAOTIC. I love my Aries moon. I identify with my Aries moon.

Since I was born after the sun had set, the moon is my luminary, the primary source of light. In Hellenistic terms, I am of the night sect, which shuffles up my helpful and less helpful planets a bit. In some schools of thought, those of the night sect identify more with their moons, while the day sects identify more with their suns. I don’t think this is universally true, although it certainly is the case for me.

The moon is the body. A lot of people associate the moon with emotions, but in truth, the moon has always been about the physical and how your feelings are embodied. The moon rules over the tangibly mundane—from the planting of domesticated gardens, the passage and celebration of time, mercantile matters, and other matters of the body, like menstruation.

My moon is in Aries. Aries is the sign of cardinal fire, and as such, I am blessed—or cursed—with a lot of energy, but little stamina. I start a lot of projects, but have difficulty finishing them. As my moon is Mars-ruled, I’m also fairly athletic, perhaps my only saving grace when it comes to my overindulgent 1st house Jupiter. I enjoy working out. I enjoy moving my body. I enjoy going so hard I bonk out.

Aries moons have short attention spans and poor impulse control, which is why we’re so chaotic. I know I identify with my Aries moon, because I am inexorably drawn to others with Aries moons before I even learn we share that placement in common—DanRad, Bernie Sanders, AOC, Jin and Taehyung from BTS.

But there are some aspects of my Aries moon that are particular to me. The moon was in its last quarter phase when I was born, a time for expulsion and the shedding of doubts and unneeded baggage. I can’t seem to hold on to my feelings. My moon being in the sign of Aries, my emotions flare hot and burn out very quickly. My feelings are tinder; they spark quickly, but can die just as fast.

The last quarter moon is also square the sun, meaning they form a 90° angle to each other in my chart, a so-called hard or difficult aspect. My Cancer sun and Aries moon, my two luminaries, were in conflict with each other on the day of my birth, and I will likely be playing mediator between them my whole life.

Taurus north node and other karmic placements

I don’t understand Taurus, or rather, the role the sign is supposed to play in my life.

My fourth house is Taurus, and while it doesn’t contain any planets, it contains three hypothetical placements that are karmic or intangible—my north node, my Part of Fortune, and my Black Moon.

Astronomically, the node and the Black Moon are mathematical points. The nodes are the places where the moon intersects the elliptic plane (the path of the sun). The points where the sun and moon meet are the points of eclipse—lunar and solar. The north node is the place of the lunar eclipse, the south node the place of the solar. The Black Moon is the hypothetical point in space between the Earth and the moon’s orbits around each other, the pivot around which their gravity-laden bodies revolve.

Astrologically, what they mean for me is something I have yet to figure out.

Which makes sense, considering these are all placements I am supposed to be figuring out in my lifetime. The north node is supposed to me the place I find resolution in this lifetime. For what? No clue. The Black Moon is the void I both reject and find irresistible at the same time. The Part of Fortune (another mathematical point that doesn’t have an astronomical origin) is supposed to be where I find worldly success. My north node and Part of Fortune literally occupy the exact same spot in my chart; they are practically the same thing. Karmic resolution and worldly success in one? IF ONLY I COULD FIGURE OUT WHAT THESE PLACEMENTS BEING IN TAURUS MEANS.

Taurus as a sign feels oddly removed from me. Ruled by earth Venus, it the sign of the epicure. Taureans luxuriate—in good food, good fashion, good art, good sex. They are sensual in every sense of the word.

I am not sensual. My body is mostly just a vehicle for my brain, although perhaps the only time I am ever in my body and not my head is when I’m in motion. (Aries moon, yes.) I’m not a foodie, although I enjoy cooking. I do love fashion, but in a very Aquarian way, with an eye toward uniqueness and not luxury. I do enjoy good art, but I also love trash. (I might love trash even more.)

Taureans are all about luxury. They love anything well-made, in good taste, with good bones. I have never been this way; I have always been about aesthetic utility rather luxurious beauty.

Perhaps my Black Moon being here makes sense. Luxury is my void, the point of both fascination and denial.

Gemini Venus

Not to play favorites, but…my Gemini Venus might be my favorite placement.

Being of the night sect, Venus is the most beneficial planet in my chart. Practically speaking, this means that Venus tends to be on her best behavior with me, usually providing me with her best significations and not as many of her less helpful ones. Venus is the planet of connection, and shows us where and how we connect with others—through art, through beauty, through charm, etc.

My Venus resides in the fifth house, the place where she is said to rejoice. The fifth house represents children, pets, creativity, and romance—all of which sound like Venusian significations, which is probably why she is said to rejoice there. As my fifth house is Gemini, my Venus takes on the characteristic duality of the Twins.

Gemini Venus is, crudely speaking, the cocktease of the zodiac. Somewhat maligned as being fickle or unfaithful, due to the mutable air quality of Gemini—we simply drift whichever direction the wind blows. There is some truth to the fickleness, but Bear and I have been together for almost 16 years now, so unfaithfulness is a failing of an individual, not of an entire sign.

All Gemini placements are youthful. There is an impish quality to all of us, almost fey in some. It lends us an ageless quality, the duality of being young and old, both and neither at the same time. Geminis are also playful, sometimes to the point of becoming trolls.

All this means that Gemini Venus is the Manic Pixie Dream Girl placement. We tease, we charm, and we flirt because it is play. We are mercurial because we are ruled by Mercury, the trickster planet. The charge of fickleness is not entirely unwarranted for precisely this reason, but that is exactly how we seduce and attract.

My Gemini Venus is a bit of a rogue planet in my natal chart as she is the only unaspected planet, meaning she doesn’t form any notable or significant angles to my other personal placements. She’s a loner, and unaspected planets can be rather pronounced. Yet at the same time, my Venus is the focal point of a somewhat unusual configuration—the Yod, or the Finger of God. It is supposedly another karmic configuration, where the focal planet is charged by two others for some purpose in this life. Somehow, my Venus is supposed to be the outlet for two of my generational placements—Scorpio Pluto (the planet of transformation) and my Capricorn Neptune (the planet of illusions). How, I have no idea. Unlike my Taurus placements, I don’t much care.

I have this theory that Venus signs are visible by the quality of a person’s gaze. Gemini Venuses have mischief in their eyes, a twinkle. And I think that you can see it in mine.

Cancer sun and Mars

The tarot card that represents Cancer is The Chariot. It’s an association that took me a while to come to terms with, but I understand it better now. The Chariot is the card of triumph and drive, a prince returning from battle, having defended his people against those who would bring them harm. Cancer is first and foremost, a protector. This is probably why a lot of pop astrology reduces this sign to nurturing or, ugh, maternal.

As a child I perhaps better fit with the popular idea of what a Cancer sun is like. I was shy, sensitive, a bit dreamy, just a smidge too soft for the world. Massive uwu energy. Cute was the word I was most often called, and I invited a protective sort of tenderness from my family, my friends, and even strangers. Cancer is the sign of cuddles, of comfort blankets, and stuffed animals, of love that swaddles and cocoons you with warmth. There is a child-like essence to Cancer, one that gets misconstrued into pouting, then passive-aggressive, then moody.

As I grew older, I shed that uwu energy the way a hermit crab outgrows its old home, but that doesn’t mean I’ve relinquished its aura entirely. I think people forget that Cancer is the sign of cardinal water; it is a wellspring, clear, life-giving and sweet. Pure is perhaps the word. Cancers are pure. Their emotions are pure. Their love is pure.

I have two planets in Cancer in my sixth house: the sun and Mars.

The sun is the planet of identity and ego. It is literally the light of your life, and represents the spirit, the source of illumination within you. Mars is the planet of action, conflict, and division. My Cancer sun says that I am illuminated by a wellspring of pure love. My Cancer Mars says that my drive is to protect.

I have a fallen Mars. In traditional astrology, each of the seven personal planets (sun, moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn) are said to have what are called essential dignities. The theory is that each planet rules two signs (or one, in the case of the luminaries), where it is said to be in domicile. Here, the planet functions with the tools and in the environment it is used to. It is quite literally, at home.

In the opposite sign, the planet is said to be in detriment, or in exile. Here the planet is an exile in a foreign land, without the resources usually available to it. It has to work harder to access its true nature, and often has to be extremely creative in doing so.

Exaltation and fall are signs where the planet is an honored guest (the former) or a stranger needing shelter (the latter). Signs where planets are not dignified or debilitated are considered peregrine, or neutral.

All of my planets are peregrine except Mars, which is fallen in the sign of Cancer. This means Mars has to work just that little bit harder to fight, to fuck, to function. He is a stranger in the moon’s domicile, and must abide by the moon’s rules and etiquette, as Cancer is ruled by the moon.

Luckily for me, my moon is ruled by Mars. This means these two planets are in mutual reception, each being guests in the other’s home. They’ve left each other instructions on how to work the stove, the keys in the lock, and a schedule of trash pickup days. My Aries moon forces my passive-aggressive Cancer Mars to act sooner rather than later, and my Cancer Mars tempers my spontaneous and reckless Aries moon with a measure of caution. They function as a pair.

In a funny way, I understand Cancer better through the lens of my Mars. Three of the members of BTS have Cancer Mars—Jin, Suga, and RM, and the three of them have the biggest protector of uwu energy ever. The two eldest, Jin and Suga are functionally the parents of BTS—cooking for the younger members, caring for them emotionally. Maternal is not really a word one would readily use to describe either one, but the instant one of their beloved little brothers needs help, they immediately jump to their feet with the familiar refrain, “형 (hyung, or older brother) will do it, 형 will do it.”

I understand that drive to protect.

RM, on the other hand, is soft. He stops along the beach to find little crabs to show his members, he grows tiny bonsai trees, and buys baby shoes simply because they were too cute in their smallness. Nurturing is not a word anyone would use to describe him, yet he is the leader of BTS, and has effectively raised all the other members as his own.

I understand that instinct to care for all things small and cute.

Cancers are said to love children and animals, which is why they are considered maternal or nurturing. I love both a great deal, and in different ways. Children delight me, but animals make me cry. I understand to my bones why RM bought those baby shoes. It’s why I used to play with my stuffed animals as a child by pretending they were in an orphanage I had gathered into one close and cuddly family. As I’ve grown up, the uwu energy that I used to project out into the world has transformed into the desire to care for it. The desire to cocoon and be cocooned in a pure, protective love is the essence of Cancer.

And that I understand.

Leo Mercury

Despite having a lot of Mercury being accidentally dignified in my chart, I don’t quite understand this placement.

Mercury is the planet of communication, short distance travel, money, work, intelligence—in short, Mercury represents so many things it’s hard to pin down what is the most significant, I suppose that’s what it means to be mercurial.

Communication is usually the first meaning people assign to the planet, so the sign would point to the communication style. Leo is the sun’s domicile, and Leos are considered warm, brave, confident, and radiant.

It’s a weird thing to say about someone’s communication style, to be honest.

The third house is actually said to represent communication and writing (as well as siblings), and mine is Aries. Personally, I don’t think Mercury’s primary meaning is about communication, especially as Mercury’s very nature is so slippery and difficult to grasp.

Which makes sense for the planet named for the trickster god. Mercury was so named for the speed and erratic behavior with which it zips around the zodiac, not for the significations of the god himself. Mercury, I think, is a bit of a chaos agent. Nimble-footed and nimble-fingered, Mercury is quick to learn, and to process.

So I think Mercury is the planet that shows us where our natural quickness lies. Where we are quick to pick up skills or qualities, perhaps what comes easily to us. Our natural gifts. As my Mercury is in Leo, I’m quick to…be radiant? Brave…? …charming? See? This is a placement I don’t really understand!

Mercury is the planet of duality and liminal spaces. Both young and old, Hermes was often depicted as a smooth-faced youth and a mature, bearded man, mischievous and wise at once. He was also a psychopomp for the gods, guiding souls down to the Underworld. He moved between the worlds of the living, the dead, and the gods, and similarly, depending on its orbit, Mercury functions as either a morning star, evening star, or combust (hidden by the sun’s rays). Mercury is an evening star in my chart, and therefore is part of the night sect. Perhaps in this position he lingers in the underworld as Mercury’s older and more sagacious aspect.

None of this makes things any clearer for me. So we fall back on communication style. Which makes sense, if you consider Mercury’s role as the celestial go-between. In which case, you could say I speak with radiance, with charisma, and with a slightly insufferable tendency to talk only about myself.

That tracks.

Scorpio Saturn and south node

Saturn is the ruler of my chart.

The ruler of the ascendant is the ruler of the chart, so as Saturn rules Aquarius, so Saturn also rules me.

I use traditional rulerships rather than modern ones, because modern convention would say that Uranus is actually my chart ruler. But skywatchers in ancient times would have seen only the classical seven, which makes sense as these planets transit the heavens visibly within our lifetimes. Cycles of time were often measured with the movement of the visible stars. Jupiter takes 12 years to traverse the zodiac, spending approximately one year in each sign. Saturn takes about 29 years to return to the sign it was in at the time of your birth. It’s why the late 20s and early 30s can be such tumultuous time; it’s your first Saturn return, the end of youth and the beginning of adulthood. Your second Saturn return in your late 50s and early 60s is generally considered your midlife crisis.

The outer planets have much longer orbits, and would therefore take generations to return to its place in the sky at the time of your birth. Pluto in particular can be used to mark generations—Scorpio Plutos are roughly millennials, Gen X are roughly Libra Plutos, Gen Z are roughly Sagittarius Plutos. Uranus and Neptune also have transits too slow to be considered personal to the individual.

So, Saturn. In Hellenistic times, this planet was considered the greater malefic. If Jupiter brought good luck, then Saturn brought bad fortune. As the dimmest and furthest planet to the naked eye, it represented the boundaries between our world and the unknown. Saturn was the planet of both time and death, the OG goth planet.

Both Saturn and my south node (and Pluto) are in Scorpio, in my 10th house. If the first house is the doorway into the self, then the 10th house is the lighthouse at the top. It’s the place of public reputation, the image the public sees from a distance. This is often shorthanded to career, but the 10th is really the face we wear in public.

Mine is secretive.

Scorpios are, in a word, intense. They are quite private, somewhat obsessive, perhaps even a little bit scary. Certainly I’ve been called intimidating or mysterious more times than I can count, even though I don’t consider myself either. But as I have both the planets of death (Saturn) and transformation (Pluto) here, perhaps it’s not surprising that maybe there is something to the charge of being somewhat terrifying.

On the surface, my Scorpio Saturn gives me my goth tendencies, my attraction toward and revelry in the morbid and the taboo, and my desire to transgress boundaries. Power has always fascinated me—especially the wielding of it, the exquisite delight and anguish of being subject to and subjecting others to it. I have the infinite potential to be cruel—more than cruel, malicious—and an even bigger capacity to enjoy it. Perhaps that is my Scorpio south node too. If my north node is the place I am supposed to find resolution in this life time, then my south node is the place I am supposed to resolve from lifetimes past. I must have been someone terrible to delight in cruelty so, down in the darkest, deepest parts of my psyche.

But I don’t indulge because Saturn is still the planet of limits. Scorpio Saturn has saddled me with rigid self-control, perhaps to rein in that overindulgent Jupiter. Control is important to Scorpios. For me, it is control of the self. I have no control over my surroundings or other people, therefore I can only control myself. It’s why I’m secretive, why I hate been perceived or seen. Like the scorpion, uncover my rock and I will either kill you or scuttle back into the shadows, away from view.

Sagittarius midheaven

The midheaven is the highest point, or zenith, in the sky when you were born. Due to the tilt of the earth and the fact that it is spherical, the placement of the midheaven can vary, depending on when and where you were born. Most of the time, the midheaven falls in the 10th house, but sometimes it can land elsewhere.

Mine is in the 11th house, just 2° into Sagittarius.

Because the midheaven usually falls in the 10th house, a lot of the meanings get twined together. For most people, your 10th house and midheaven both mean career, but there is light between the two. The 10th house is your public self, and your midheaven can be considered the pinnacle of the potential in your natal chart. Put together, they are often considered your career.

A career is not the same thing as a job. The 6th house rules labor, and the 2nd house rules personal finances, so often whatever brings you income can be found in those places instead, but your midheaven is what you are known for, which may not be what earns you money.

My midheaven is in my house of friends, society, and institutions. This is the House of Good Spirit, considered to be the place were Jupiter rejoices. Because my 11th house is Sagittarius, my Jupiter rules here. Sagittarius is a little bit the frat bro sign of the zodiac, full of bonhomie and raucous good cheer. Good times are both wanted and to be had, no matter the expense. Very jovial, indeed.

But Sagittarius is also one of the more philosophical signs of the zodiac, along with Pisces. Jupiter may be the planet of good fortune and expansion, but it is also the planet of faith, and it rules both. Sagittarius likes to ponder the big questions, very much like that frat bro who, after taking a hit on the bong, chokes out “But what is the meaning of life, man?” along with a cloud of weed fumes. And because Uranus is here, all my philosophical questions tend to be “But what about dismantling the capitalist institutions you hold so dear, man?”

To be honest, I don’t think much about my midheaven. I can’t control what I am known for. And that’s fine with me. I can only control myself. That that’s my Scorpio placements talking, I suppose.