What makes us human? Is it our capacity to love? Our capacity to grieve? Our capacity to tolerate Alec Baldwin’s appearances on our screens? No, of course not, you fools! It’s our capacity to fear! It’s scientifically proven that fear is a uniquely human emotion [Ed: it is not.] However, we don’t all always fear the same things. This week, we’re picking out each sign’s biggest fears! Fun, right?
“Good morning!” you say to the receptionist as you enter your doctor’s office. She looks confused. “Morning?” she asks. “The first part of the day is called a ‘morging.’ It always has been.” Everyone in the waiting room laughs at your foolish error. You try to correct yourself, but still can’t manage to get it right. Another patient films this, and it goes viral. Everyone laughs at you. “Look, children: it’s the ‘morning’ man!” they scream. You’re recognized everywhere you go. Thirty years later, you wind up homeless, addicted to Cocaine 2, and selling “Good Morning!” t-shirts on a highway in Oregon.
You use a good chunk of your considerable fortune to build yourself a house of illusions. Stairs that lead nowhere, walls painted to look like doors, secret rooms: this house has it all. Unfortunately, in your old age, you become confused by your own illusions, and fall hopelessly in love with your reflection in a mirror that warps your body to look like a particularly busty young blonde. Try as they might, none of your kin can break the spell. They abandon you, as you laugh deliriously, unable to remove your eyes from your own warped visage.
You wake up one morning, to find that no one seems to be able to hear you. In fact, they don’t seem to know you exist at all. You scream at them, shake them by the shoulders, but still no one notices you. It’s not until you meet another that you learn: you’re a ghost. Fortunately, these others ghosts are around to keep you company. Unfortunately, they also fucking hate you.
After months of unemployment, you finally find a job rolling large boulders to the top of a hill. “At last!” you think to yourself. “Everything’s coming up Sisyphus!” As it turns out, it is not.
Something goes wrong in your brain. You’re still alright, at least externally, but you can’t speak like you used to. In fact, it seems like every time you try, you say things you don’t want to. Worst of all, they’re primarily quotes from The Fountainhead. Strangest of all, they’re in Croatian.
You have no place to call your home. You become a man without a country, riding your horse from town to town, rescuing distressed damsels from bandits and schemers. None of them will ever replace the family you lost, though. O, if only you’d known not to feed them that fiberglass insulation! But alas! Alas, alas.
After being caught stealing extra flour from the village mill, you’re dragged in front of your notoriously cold-hearted king for punishment. Once you look up, however, you discover that the king is, in fact, you! Also, he’s married to your third grade teacher? And he seems to be eating your childhood dog? Of course, this is all a dream. In real life, you know you’d never dare to take such advantage of the village mill. But that doesn’t stop the nightmares.
Anarchy! The land is ruled by roving packs of mutated mercenaries, the only currency is shards of glass, and you’re forced to eke out a living stuffing dirt under your fingernails. No, I don’t know why they pay you to do that either.
As the judge presiding over a war crimes tribunal, you carry a great weight. Unfortunately, when it comes time to read the verdict for a Tasmanian dictator, you accidentally say “Filthy” instead of “Guilty.” There are no take-backs in the Hague, therefore his only punishment is a shower. At least he pays you handsomely for your mistake?
You like to think of yourself as quite the catch, which is why you’re surprised the next time you go out, and no man has any interest in you. “Sorry,” they tell you, their voices dripping with pity. “We’re looking for someone more like that.” They point to Dave’s new girlfriend, a being made of pure magma. Knowing you never could compare, you end up settling for, like, an astrologer or something.
Your life as a brilliant math teacher is all you ever dreamed of. You pass judgement on the skills of children with nary a care in the world. One day, however, an old student comes to your door. You remember his face, remember the fury in his eyes as you gave him that D-. “Hello, professor,” he says. “It’s me, Albert Einstein.” Then he has sex with your wife.
You meet the perfect man, or so you think. He’s handsome, charming, and sweet, but he hates to speak up when he’s upset. No, he only feels comfortable expressing his emotions in large, public crowds. Also, he can only do it while yelling. Also, all of the marital issues he’d like to discuss are, in his opinion, related to your psychosexual hang-ups about your father.