But sometimes I think it is outrageous, the idea that the place and time I was born can in any way impact my personality, make me magnetic or vindictive or give me dark hair. The thing is, I have a Gemini moon, and that allows me to hold two contradictory ideas at once. I both revere astrology as among the oldest belief systems in the world, a cosmic tool kit to realize our best selves, and find it a trendy new age crutch, a way to justify bad behavior. Sorry, I was rude … such a Virgo moment! No, Allison, you’re just a cunt.

When I could afford her, my therapist told me I have OCD and that astrology is the primary way it manifests. She said this after I told her I can’t look at someone’s face without thinking of their sign. If they seem to have their shit together, I guess Capricorn or Cap rising. (I have no Capricorn in my chart.) If they are shouting, I guess Sagittarius. If they look confused, then Libra. If they are a dark, sexy bitch, I know Scorpio is in the mix. I even categorize inanimate objects and places. My apartment is a Virgo—stark and minimalist, but secretly messy. The Mirror Box is an Aries—hedonistic and a little dangerous. Los Angeles is a Leo—vain as hell, but you have to love it. Astrology gives me a clean system where everything fits.

I didn’t feel great about the OCD diagnosis. As far as mental health issues go, I’d always seen myself as more depressive. Winona Ryder suffered from depression. All the greats did, from Virginia Woolf to River Phoenix. But OCD is not chic. OCD is a sweaty man in a too-tight tie, turning the light switch on and off. OCD is a sorority girl who painstakingly organizes her ballet flats by color.

I read online that OCD is characterized by persistent, uncontrollable thoughts that are disturbing (obsessions) and repetitive actions (compulsions) that attempt to relieve the distress. My thoughts about astrology are persistent and uncontrollable, sure. The other day I caught myself googling the zodiac sign of a cartoon beluga whale I saw on Instagram. I was guessing Gemini (it blew these sassy, skillful bubble rings). But, obviously, Google could neither confirm nor deny, as it was a cartoon whale.

But these types of diversions are annoying, not torturous. And I don’t perform any repetitive actions to relieve the distress, because there is no distress—just irritation. When I said this to my therapist, she said that the thoughts need not be disturbing but can be merely “unwanted.” And regarding the compulsions, she cited a few, including my throwing money at strippers every day.

But the Mirror Box isn’t a compulsion; it’s a lifestyle.

“I’m expensive,” I tell Cinnamon. “Overpriced even.”