or something. I don’t know anything about astrology, but it seems like every gay guy I meet wants to talk about it. They always ask What’s your sign? but they never seem particularly excited about my answer. And there’s something seriously wrong with me—which is to say, I spent a weekend reading Adorno’s scathing essay, “The Stars Down to Earth,” just so I could be a better hater. I told this one guy that horoscopes are part of a fundamentally fascist enterprise; he said I was too pessimistic; I rejoined That’s what the Prozac’s for, but I don’t think he picked up on my Sopranos reference, because he skipped over it and asked Is Prozac addictive? I told him Yes, it is. I’m addicted to not killing myself.