"You know," my former colleague confessed, "you don't really act like a Gemini."
It was May 2018, and my coworkers had roped me into after-work drinks at a Hell's Kitchen gay bar in honor of my 22nd birthday. I'd grown particularly close to this colleague. In a team of mostly cisgender gay men, the two of us stuck out. We quickly bonded over shared interests our male coworkers couldn't possibly understand: Janelle Monáe's Dirty Computer, vibrators that look like necklaces, and of course, astrology.
I'd barely dipped my toes into the intimidatingly vast ocean of astrological study; by comparison, my colleague had the technical astro knowledge of a deep-sea diver. So when she offered to pull up my birth chart after a tequila soda or two, I nearly leapt out of my seat with enthusiasm. She proceeded to show me a circular wheel covered in strange glyphs and explained everything from my Rising sign to my misunderstood Sun in the 12th House. I ditched the hard stuff for water and listened as closely as I could, desperate to commit her cosmic wisdom to memory.
In that dimly lit bar, my world tilted on its axis.
It was May 2018, and my coworkers had roped me into after-work drinks at a Hell's Kitchen gay bar in honor of my 22nd birthday. I'd grown particularly close to this colleague. In a team of mostly cisgender gay men, the two of us stuck out. We quickly bonded over shared interests our male coworkers couldn't possibly understand: Janelle Monáe's Dirty Computer, vibrators that look like necklaces, and of course, astrology.
I'd barely dipped my toes into the intimidatingly vast ocean of astrological study; by comparison, my colleague had the technical astro knowledge of a deep-sea diver. So when she offered to pull up my birth chart after a tequila soda or two, I nearly leapt out of my seat with enthusiasm. She proceeded to show me a circular wheel covered in strange glyphs and explained everything from my Rising sign to my misunderstood Sun in the 12th House. I ditched the hard stuff for water and listened as closely as I could, desperate to commit her cosmic wisdom to memory.
In that dimly lit bar, my world tilted on its axis." target="_blank" style="text-decoration:none;color:#555555;" rel="noopener">"You know," my former colleague confessed, "you don't really act like a Gemini."
It was May 2018, and my coworkers had roped me into after-work drinks at a Hell's Kitchen gay bar in honor of my 22nd birthday. I'd grown particularly close to this colleague. In a team of mostly cisgender gay men, the two of us stuck out. We quickly bonded over shared interests our male coworkers couldn't possibly understand: Janelle Monáe's Dirty Computer, vibrators that look like necklaces, and of course, astrology.
I'd barely dipped my toes into the intimidatingly vast ocean of astrological study; by comparison, my colleague had the technical astro knowledge of a deep-sea diver. So when she offered to pull up my birth chart after a tequila soda or two, I nearly leapt out of my seat with enthusiasm. She proceeded to show me a circular wheel covered in strange glyphs and explained everything from my Rising sign to my misunderstood Sun in the 12th House. I ditched the hard stuff for water and listened as closely as I could, desperate to commit her cosmic wisdom to memory.
In that dimly lit bar, my world tilted on its axis.
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