Scream Into the Algorithm

I want to scream into a pillow every time someone tells me they’re a Sagittarius rising INFP enneagram 4w5
— born in the cusp of a vibe.

Can we please stop with this shit.

There are billion-dollar machines working around the clock to profile you.
To study you.
To sell you.
And even they get it wrong.

But you?
You do their work for them.

You walk in the room and announce your blood type like it’s a personality.
You hand over your nuance
in a cute little bundle of letters and moons and "oh my god that’s so me."

It’s not identity.
It’s branding.
It’s spiritual cosplay.
It’s the illusion of depth with none of the effort.

You're not quirky because Mercury was in retrograde when you ate your first crayon.
You're quirky because you're human.
Because you're a mess.
Because you cried on a Tuesday once for no reason and still don't know why.

And that should be enough.

But no.
Now everything’s a script.
You’re not rude — you’re just a Capricorn.
You’re not indecisive — you’re a Libra with trauma.

Shut the fuck up.

If I have to hear one more “tee hee, it’s just so Scorpio of me,”
I’m going to need a new pillow,
a microphone,
or a screamo band called Birth Chart Collapse.

This isn’t astrology.
This is anesthetic.
This is fear of being misunderstood
so you pre-label yourself before anyone else gets the chance.

You don’t want to be discovered.
You want to be predicted.

You don’t want to be known.
You want to be categorized.

Because nuance is hard.
And self-reflection takes work.
And god forbid we spend more time alone in the dark asking who we really are instead of reposting some pastel zodiac meme that tells us we’re “creative but chaotic.”

Tee hee wins.
Every time.
Because truth takes too long to explain.
And nobody wants to wait for that anymore.

But here’s mine:

You’re not your fucking sign.
You’re not your Myers-Briggs.
You’re not the number on some ancient enneagram chart.

You’re a breathing, bleeding, beautiful contradiction.
Act like it.