Q: About six weeks ago, I started dating the nicest guy. I have some intimacy issues, and having somebody be nice to me is new and uncomfortable. I freaked out one night and had sex with somebody else. I know this guy I’m dating isn’t sleeping with other women, but we haven’t had the official talk. I don’t plan on doing this again, but I really want to confess. The guilt is terrible.—Disgusted With Myself

A: The only man with whom you should be discussing your recent sexual history is Dr. Maury Finkelbaum, your 7,000-year-old gynecologist.

You and Neighbordude have no agreement for sexual exclusivity, and you can’t violate a treaty that doesn’t exist. Still, assuming he isn’t getting it on with anyone else, it’s natural you’d feel guilty about an asymmetry in sexual grazing.

Human psychology evolved to have an inner-accounting staff monitoring the fairness level of our behavior—calculating whether we’re giving as much as we’re getting. However, evolution doesn’t care whether we’re nice people. It just wants us to survive so we can pass on our genes. Accordingly, this fairness-monitoring system safeguards our physical survival through safeguarding our social survival.

Even today, when we perceive we’re getting more than our fair share of something, our behavioral accounts-payable team pings us in the form of feelbad: the noxious, gut-churning feeling of guilt.

Research by evolutionary psychologist Daniel Sznycer and his colleagues deems guilt a “recalibrational emotion.” Translated from the Professorese, this means that our wanting to stop the feelbad from guilt motivates us to even the balance between ourselves and somebody we’ve shorted in some way.

The thing is, emotion, which rises up automatically with no effort from us, needs to be fact-checked by reason. Unfortunately, reason has to be dragged out of bed and forced to work. And that’s what you need to do with yours. Again, remember you and this guy had no exclusivity agreement that would have barred you from venturing into other men’s beds, back seats or sex dungeons.

Also, let’s get real on why you’re longing to tell. It isn’t to make the guy feel better but to make yourself feel better—to rid yourself of the psychological tension that comes from holding back information.

Next, consider the view from psychiatrist and evolutionary researcher Randolph Nesse that painful emotions are important motivational tools. Just as searing pain gets you to lift your hand pronto, you can use your guilt-induced discomfort in a positive way: as reinforcement against your stepping out on the guy once you two do have a relationship.

Other helpful insight comes from research on “attachment.” The “attachment behavioral system,” explain social scientists Mario Mikulencer and Philip Shaver, motivates human beings, from infancy on, “to seek proximity to significant others (attachment figures) in times of need.” A person’s “attachment style” indicates the degree to which a person “worries that a partner will not be responsive in times of need” (including the worry that one’s partner will flee the relationship entirely).

However, Mikulencer and Shaver note that “a growing body of research shows that attachment style can change, subtly or dramatically.” One way to change it is through asking your partner to be physically and emotionally expressive with you in loving, cuddly ways. Research by psychologist Brooke C. Feeney finds that the more an insecurely attached person sees their partner is there for them, the more independent they can be.

Finally, there’s something you can do to help yourself feel more secure, per Mikulencer and Shaver’s research: Turn on the TV in your head and run helpful programming—a mental video of warm, fuzzy “attachment figures.” The researchers explain that “thoughts of an available and supportive attachment figure” lead people with a lot of attachment insecurities “to behave more like secure people.” Or, putting this another way, your response to a man being really loving to you would be to give love in return—as opposed to giving excuses like “I was so freaked out by how nice you were to me that I tripped and fell on somebody else’s penis.”

I might never have been born if it weren’t for one of my favorite films. Let me explain.

My parents worked together in SF for a few years before dating in secret to avoid office gossip. They watched their first film together as a couple in May, 1979, at a theater in Corte Madera. The lead actress, a nobody, had only one prior credit—as an extra in Annie Hall. The simple sets included bomber-plane parts left over from World War II, Christmas lights and CRT TVs. The even-simpler plot had been repeated a million times before: a spaceship crew encounters a monster and fights for survival.

But the monster my parents—and millions of other moviegoers—first met in 1979 never left our collective unconscious.

The Alien.

As Alien celebrates its 40th anniversary this year, I’ve thought a lot about both the movie and the creature that enthralled and terrified me as a kid. After three sequels, two prequels and two tie-ins with the Predator franchise, it’s hard for viewers to remember pre-1979 sci-fi aliens; the Alien changed the genre forever.

Beginning with H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds, just about every alien depicted in literature, film and television possessed either an intelligence or motivation people understood. Possessed with “intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic,” Wells’ Martians “regarded earth with envious eyes.” In the following decades, these and other “bad” aliens were either highly intelligent menaces or zoo creatures on the loose.

The Alien, however, was completely different—primal, dangerous and, as science officer Ash states near the film’s end, pure. It didn’t even need eyes to pick off the Nostromo’s crew one by one.

The Alien possessed a Freudian nightmare of a lifecycle that combined rape, birth and a whole lotta phallic imagery—it wasn’t what hid in the shadows, it was the shadows. It wasn’t something to fear, it was fear.

The Alien as we know and love it resulted from two problems screenwriter and USC grad Dan O’Bannon encountered while writing the screenplay’s first draft. Firstly, in similar films, the alien always entered the spacecraft through a ridiculous plot device such as someone forgetting to close a hatch.

Secondly, O’Bannon received a diagnosis of Crohn’s Disease, a condition that led to his early death in 2009. Feeling as if your guts are tearing apart from the inside out is one of Crohn’s main symptoms.

So, O’Bannon wondered, what if the creature entered the ship inside someone and then burst its way out of them?

Which brings us to this article’s title: “The Thing Emerges.” These three words from the Alien script describe the day the film’s cast entered the set—the spaceship Nostromo’s dining room—and found the cameras wrapped in plastic and the air heavy with the stench of animal blood and formaldehyde. Two puppeteers, two technicians manning plungers full of all that nasty fluid, and most of actor John Hurt’s body—only his arms and head were visible—hid beneath the dining room table. The rest of his “body” above the table consisted of dummy legs and a chest cavity filled to the brim with rotting cow parts and the “chestburster” puppet.

The scene, from the chestburster’s bloody entrance to its now-famous scurry off-set, lasts only 25 seconds. But those 25 seconds are a master class in how to make actors perform genuinely in spite of them knowing everything that is going to happen well in advance. Veronica Cartwright, no stranger to horror since her days as a child actor in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, let out a genuine scream that mixed horror and disgust.

And from that iconic moment on, monster movies, sci-fi movies and horror movies were never the same.

From Oct. 13-16, North Bay cinemas celebrate the 40th anniversary of Alien with special showings: Century Napa Valley (195 Gasser Drive, Napa), San Rafael Regency 6 (280 Smith Ranch Road, San Rafael) and The Clover (121 E. First Street, Cloverdale). Reserve your tickets online by visiting Fathom Events.

Finally, if you are one of the few people who never saw Alien, I envy you. And if you can’t wait until later this month to view it on the big screen, do yourself a favor and watch it in a pitch-black room late at night with the sound turned way up. It’s an old movie, you might tell yourself. CGI didn’t even exist back then. How could it be scary?

I won’t lie to you about your chances of surviving the ordeal, but…you have my sympathies.

ARIES (March 21-April 19): “Love is when you meet someone who tells you something new about yourself,” wrote poet André Breton. I think that’s an excellent principle to put at the top of your priority list in the coming weeks, Aries. To be in maximum alignment with cosmic rhythms, you should seek input from allies who’ll offer insights about you that are outside your current conceptions of yourself. You might even be daring enough to place yourself in the paths of strangers, acquaintances, animals and teachers who can provide novel reflections. There’s just one caveat: Stay away from people who might be inclined to fling negative feedback.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Constantine P. Cavafy’s poem “Waiting for the Barbarians” imagines the imminent arrival of an unpredictable agent of chaos. “The barbarians are coming today,” declares the narrator. Everyone in town is uneasy. People’s routines are in disarray. Faces look worried. What’s going to happen? But the poem has a surprise ending. “It is night, and the barbarians haven’t come,” reports the narrator. “Some people have arrived from the frontier and say that there aren’t any more barbarians.” I propose that we use this scene as a metaphor for your life right now, Taurus. It’s quite possible that the perceived threat isn’t really a threat. So here’s my question, taken from near the end of the poem: “What are we going to do now without the barbarians?”

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): Some folklorists prefer the term “wonder tales” rather than “fairy tales.” Indeed, many such stories are filled with marvelous events that feature magical transformations, talking animals and mythical creatures like elves and dragons and unicorns. I bring this up, Gemini, because I want to encourage you to read some wonder tales. Hopefully, as you do, you’ll be inspired to re-imagine your life as a wonder tale; you’ll reframe the events of the “real world” around you as being elements in a richly entertaining wonder tale. Why do I recommend this? Because wonder tales are like waking dreams that reveal the wishes and curiosities and fascinations of your deep psyche. And I think you will benefit profoundly in the coming weeks from consciously tuning in to those wishes and curiosities and fascinations.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): I suspect that in the coming days you’ll be able to see into everyone’s souls more vividly than usual. You’ll have a special talent for piercing through the outer trappings of their personalities so as to gaze at the essence beneath. It’s as if your eyes will be blessed by an enhancement that enables you to discern what’s often hidden. This upgrade in your perception may at times be unsettling. For some of the people you behold, the difference between how they present themselves and who they actually are will be dramatic. But for the most part, penetrating to the depths should be fun and enriching—even healing.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): “This heart is rusty,” writes poet Gabriel Gadfly. “It creaks, it clanks, it crashes and rattles and bangs.” Why is his heart in such a state? Because he has been separated from a person he loves. And so he’s out of practice in doing the little things, the caring gestures and tender words, that a lover does to keep the heart well-oiled. It’s my observation that most of us go through rusty-heart phases like this even when we are living in close proximity to an intimate ally. We neglect to practice the art of bestowing affectionate attention and low-key adoration. We forget how important it is for our own welfare that we continually refresh and reinvigorate our heart intelligence. These are good meditations for you right now, Leo.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): “All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired,” writes novelist Chuck Palahniuk. I agree! And that’s a key meditation for you right now. Your assignment is to enhance and upgrade the inspiration you feel about the activities that are most important to you—the work and the play that give you the sense you’re living a meaningful life. So how do you boost your excitement and motivation for those essential actions you do on a regular basis? Here’s a good place to begin: visualize in exuberant detail all the reasons you started doing them in the first place.

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): I hope you are embarking on a vigorous new phase of self-redefinition. I trust you are excited about shedding old ways of thinking about yourself and eager to revise and re-imagine the plot of your life story. As you do, keep in mind this helpful counsel from physicist Richard Feynman: “You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing.”

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): You’ve probably heard the saying, “Genius is 99 percent perspiration and one percent inspiration.” It’s often attributed to inventor Thomas Edison. 16th-century artist Michelangelo expressed a similar idea. “If you knew how much labor went into it, you would not call it genius,” he said about one of his masterpieces. I’m guessing that you Scorpios have been in a phase when these descriptions are highly apropos. The work you’ve been doing may look productive and interesting and heroic to the casual observer, and maybe only you know how arduous and exacting it has been. So now what do you do? I say it’s time to enjoy the fruits of your efforts. Celebrate! Give yourself a thrilling gift.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): “The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you,” declared astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. If that’s even a little bit true, I bet you won’t believe it in the coming weeks. According to my analysis, the universe will make a great deal of sense to you—at times even exquisite, beautiful, breathtaking sense. Life will be in a revelatory and articulate mood. The evocative clues coming your way about the nature of reality could tempt you to believe that there is indeed a coherent plan and meaning to your personal destiny.

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): In 2005, Facebook was a start-up company barely on the map of the internet. Its president asked graffiti artist David Choe to paint murals on the walls of its headquarters. Choe asked for $60,000, but the president convinced him to be paid with Facebook stock instead. Years later, when Facebook went public, Choe became a multi-millionaire. I suspect that in the coming months you will be faced with choices that are less spectacular than that, Capricorn, but similar and important. My conclusion: Be willing to consider smart gambles when projects are germinating.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): “Experiment is the sole source of truth,” wrote philosopher and polymath Henri Poincaré. “It alone can teach us something new; it alone can give us certainty.” He wasn’t merely referring to the kinds of experiments that scientists conduct in laboratories. He was talking about the probes and explorations we can and should carry out in the course of our daily lives. I mention this, Aquarius, because the coming days will be prime time for you to do just that: ask provocative questions, initiate novel adventures and incite fun learning experiences.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): In my opinion, Piscean singer, poet and actor Saul Williams produces high-quality art. So he has earned a right to critique mediocre art. In speaking about movies and TV shows that are hard to enjoy unless we dumb ourselves down, he says that “we have more guilty pleasure than actual f—— pleasure.” Your assignment in the coming weeks, Pisces, is to cut back on your “guilty pleasures”—the entertainment, art and socializing that brings meager returns—as you increase and upgrade your actual f—— pleasure.