This Sign Is Trash: Virgo Edition

Y’all, we need to talk about Virgos.

They come in two flavors. The kind that goes down easier is the ever-loyal, ever-prepared friend whose house always seems a little cleaner than yours and whose taxes are always a little more done. This is the Helper Virgo, a generally benevolent force who works to better the world through unceasing assistance — they may be a touch condescending at times, and they’ll never throw a party that doesn’t seem like it was approved by City Council, but they mean well and they follow through even better.

(There is a decent chance that this includes any Virgos reading this, in which case: You’re doing a good job, buddy; the thumbs-up I’m giving you is a colloquial gesture signifying friendly approval — after many hours of strenuous research, you may learn to imitate it.)

Pictured: A Virgo discovers their humanity

Then there’s the other flavor. To properly understand this kind of Virgo, you must first imagine an ice cream cone — immaculately shaped, gleaming, a vanilla of purest unflecked white. The sight is so enticing that you snatch the cone away from the dispenser and bite into it; you eat it so quickly that you’re halfway through before you even notice the turd in the middle of the cream. You spit it out, but it’s too late: Your teeth are stained brown, the taste will linger the rest of the day and the memories will haunt you for years.

This is the kind of Virgo who dots those listicles that roll off the Sun signs of serial killers — the Prissy Shithead Virgo. This subgenus can’t reconcile their own personal ambitions with Virgo’s inherently helpful nature; they can’t stand how easily they’re relegated to a supporting role, and spend their whole lives plotting to escape the trap the stars laid for them.

(There is, frankly, a far better chance that any Virgos reading this fall into the second category and are pretty angry, in which case: Go clean your house about it.)

The face every Virgo makes when they’re angry.

And since Virgo is such a detail-oriented sign, they’re very *good* plotters. But no matter how far they scheme their way towards the top, Type B can’t escape the fact that they’re not built for open conflict at all; the only thing they fear more than a dirty hand is a hand dirtied in a losing pursuit. So they smile in their competitor’s faces, blessing their rival’s heart while plotting the best angle to remove it; rules-obsessed until the end, they wait until they can plausibly maintain their virtuous self-image, raise their knife and…Well…

Go on. Take a bite.

But while nobody wants to bite into a chocolate surprise, this pattern of behavior reveals a great deal of weakness. Virgos — even the friendly ones — will speak at length about how ruthless they are when circumstances justify it; but while they think themselves capable of monstrous acts, in reality they’re too obsessed with details and scruples to truly carry them out.

For example: Scorpios would raise that knife and plunge it into the spot where it would cause the most pain; Capricorns would strike the most efficient killing blow they could manage; Aries would stab, then stab again and again until their bloodlust was sated.

By contrast, Virgos raise it and spend five minutes assessing the angle; they spend another five making sure nobody’s looking; another five are spent worrying about the blood they’ll get on their dress. By the time they’re actually ready to strike, the target has walked away, and the Virgo has to settle for shitting in their ice cream.

Nice Virgos do this too, but they get consent first.

And among their friends, they’ll boast about that shittery as if they slayed a dragon made out of Hitlers, holding their turd up as evidence of their supposed righteous badassitude. But they’ll never mention that they wanted to stab the same person — nice, pure Virgos don’t do such things — and they’ll *certainly* never admit that they lacked the nerve to follow through.

That’s the thing: An unevolved Virgo will spend their whole life trying to pass off pettiness as viciousness, venal sins as mortal acts fit only for the damned. But they’re too prim and priggish to ever be truly threatening: They’re the snotty yuppie in an 80‘s comedy, the mean girl making fun of the pink-haired hero in your favorite anime — placeholder villains tormented by the fact that they’ll never be main characters.

The more they rail against the genuinely benevolent nature assigned them by the stars, the more pitiful they become, earning neither the love of their peers or the respect of the monsters they emulate. So if you bite into that ice cream cone, console yourself with this knowledge: Your meager comeuppance was probably the high point of their life, and as much as they’ll try to convince themselves otherwise, they are keenly aware of how pathetic that really is.

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