Exalted

by Anna Dorn

The therapist used the phrase “borderline personality disorder.” She said it was a diagnosis, but I thought it was bullshit. My personality isn’t disordered. Everyone loves my personality. I said to her, “Borderline what? Borderline fabulous?” and then I winked, and she looked at me like I had three heads.

She has sleepy eyes and is wearing a chemise, a word I know only because last night I hit the bong and followed an Instagram ad to an adult women’s sleepwear website.

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.

I don’t care that my obsession looks pathological. Therapists don’t know shit anyway. I went to one only because I was making a lot of money and therapy felt like an indulgence I deserved. I’m not mentally ill. I’m just alive. And being alive mostly involves pain and suffering and disappointment, and the only thing that makes it tolerable is a distraction from all that.

I like that astrology transcends gender, class, and race. The stars don’t care that I grew up in a shitty suburb and didn’t go to college. The point is I’m a Scorpio, the same sign as Winona Ryder. I also like that astrology allows me to skip the bullshit and dive right into the mess of the human condition. I mean, astrology is bullshit. But it’s a more interesting type of bullshit than the average bullshit—your job, your car, your siblings … like I care. I want to know if you struggle with control issues or are prone to hysteria.

How condescending. I don’t “need help.” I need someone to accept me for who I am. I am volatile, sure. But I have a good heart, and I’m really fucking fun—the life of the party. And I have perfect tits. Anyone would be lucky to have me.

She’s cute. Of course she has a boyfriend. Tara had a boyfriend when I met her. Men aren’t really a threat. Only on 48 Hours.

“What is this shit?” I ask, pointing to the stereo. “Vampire Weekend,” he says. I make a hacking noise, and he laughs his cloying laugh. “Their new album is pretty good.” I can’t think of a single thing to say to that. “What would you prefer?” he asks. “White noise,” I say. “The sound of myself talking. Cats screeching. A woman in labor.” I reach for the stereo and turn it off. “I’ve missed your negativity,” he says. “It’s refreshing in Los Angeles, the city of unchecked delusion.”

I guess weed does make me self-critical. But it also makes me a lot nicer. Maybe I need to be more self-aware to engage with others, to keep my hostility in check.

I open the door and am confronted with an overwhelming scent: sunscreen and coconut and cigarettes and champagne. It smells kind of nice. Not “pleasant,” exactly, but more interesting than the sterile smell of my parents’ home. I also see big blond hair.