You are all business, no pleasure. Totally downbeat. As serious as a disease. As nuclear war. As Armageddon. You are as grave as a cemetery. The minute you enter the room, the music stops and everyone drops their drinks because things are gonna get serious. Even when you try to be funny, there’s a deadly seriousness behind it.
I hate to break it to you this way, honey, but sometimes it’s more fun to play with a bag of cement than to hang out with you. Around you, things are always heavy, never light. You walk around like you’ve just been sold a used car by the Grim Reaper. You cry at comedies. You also cry at tragedies. Basically you cry a lot, and I wish you’d cheer the hell up. Even if you find something to be hilarious, you won’t laugh. You’ll just say “That’s funny” with a deadpan face, with that unsmiling stony mug of yours.
Who’s that I see emerging from the darkness and shadows? Why, it’s Debbie Downer, sulking her way back into town—stern, solemn, and pokerfaced like usual. Yes, I realize you have a lot of pressure on you. Yes, I realize that a lot of people depend on you. Yes, I realize that life is often difficult, cruel, and unfair. But no, you don’t realize what a pain in the ass you can be about all these things. Take two chill pills, turn that frown upside down, and call me in the morning.
Why. Are. You. So. Serious? You’d be good at planning a war, but not a party. A funeral, but not a baby shower. An escape route, but not a road trip. Just being around you would make a drunk person sober right up. I swear, if I have to creep up behind you and paint a smile on your face, I’m gonna do it. Either lighten up or I’ll do the lightening for you.
You swing back and forth on the spectrum between the serious and silly. You’ll get your life together for a while and be all serious–paying your bills, planning for the future, learning new skills—until you can’t take it anymore, and then you’ll dive head-first into some meaningless fun. And then you’ll have so much fun that you’ll lose your job and get evicted from your apartment, at which point it’s time to get serious again.
When it comes to being serious or silly, you’re sensible. You take serious things seriously and you take silly things…um…sillily? If a friend gets in a car accident, well, it’s time to get serious. But if your friend doesn’t get hurt in the accident and the insurance covers the damage and she winds up falling in love with the guy who T-boned her because he ran a red light, well, it’s time for you to all put on your Silly Suits and go out for drinks and dancing.
You delicately balance the scales right in between serious and silly. Sometimes you’re grouchy and grumpy. Other times you’re goofy and cuddly. Mostly it depends on what part of your monthly cycle you’re on. OK, not mostly—entirely. If Aunt Flo is in town, you’re as serious as a coroner. Most of the rest of the month, though, you’re a bright and shiny delight. It all hinges on your wacky hormones.
OK, finally we’re getting to the FUN side of the zodiac. Seriously, some of those star signs at the top of this list can be a real bummer! But even here, you’re not fun all the time. You’re serious during the week, silly on the weekends. On weekdays you’re dealing with spreadsheets; on weekends you’re spreading out under the sheets. You work hard so that you can play hard. But seriously, I’m glad that you can be silly.
Sure you have serious goals, but you never let yourself get weighed down by them. Yes, you realize that life never ends well, but that doesn’t stop you from playing funny pranks on your friends. Mostly you are playful, upbeat, vivacious, and a real joy to be around…except when you aren’t. Nine times out of ten, you’re a big ball of fun. It’s that tenth time that can ruin a whole evening. Seriously.
Sure, you have an eclectic personality, and sometimes you’re about as fun as a crab claw pinching my nose, but most of the time you’re lighthearted, jovial, and jocular. Carefree and uninhibited, you’ll go out clubbing in pajamas on a whim and even sneak a flask of brandy past the bouncer, dance the night away, and go out for waffles at 7AM with all fifteen of your new friends you met.
The party doesn’t start until you get there, and it stops the moment you leave. You are an icebreaker, not an ice maker. You are a lover, not a fighter. You are a clown, not a bring-me-down. When I’m feeling sad, I’ll hang around you and home that some of your infectious joie de vivre rubs off on me.
You are all pleasure, no business. Totally upbeat. You are such a wacky little ball of silliness, it’s almost impossible to be in a bad mood around you. You spread rainbows and sunshine and glitter and confetti and Silly String wherever you go, you silly rabbit, you. You’re also spontaneous—if you get soaked in a rainstorm, you’ll find the closest Laundromat and just throw yourself in the dryer. It’s impossible to keep a straight face around you, and for that I wish I could reach through the screen and give you a little hug—before closing the dryer door on you and tossing in four more quarters.