The Universe Doesn't Give a Flying Fuck About You

by Johnny B. Truant

It all starts with, presumably, the Big Bang, wherein a single point in space barfs forth a hot, violent soup of particles and energy that take a few hundred million years just to cool down enough to begin coalescing into stars. You know... to "cool down" enough to become giant fucking balls of fire. Stars ignite. Star clusters form, and become galaxies. Rocks in space start running into each other, and a few planets are created. Eventually, the Earth is born. Hooray! The Earth sits there for a few more billion years, until, after a lot of back and forth and general bureaucratic indecision, life shows up. Very, very recently, humanity, (which is perfect and unique if you ignore how random it all seems), makes its appearance. Hooray!

That lasts for a little while. Humans thrive. Invent the rotisserie. Build the internet. Watch porn. After a bit, though (and this part of the story is still unwritten, but definitely coming) the sun sloughs off its outer layers, obliterating all of the inner planets as it dies. Then, as the fusion at the sun's core that keeps it inflated runs out of raw materials, it collapses into a white dwarf, and the solar system weeps as it loses yet another great player to retirement. Hooray! After this, it gets really fun. The astrophysicists who used to think the universe was going to re-contract into the "Big Crunch" now say that the universe's expansion is actually accelerating. Meaning: After enough time passes, the Earth's old position (Earth having been blown away aeons ago, of course) will be so distant from anything else that you'd be able to look up into the sky and see absolutely nothing

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper Deep, man.

You're not just looking up into a curtain of black. You're looking into the eye of the universe. Stare for a while and you start to realize -- on a deep, gut level -- that the moon is a giant rock circling us in space. The sun is a violent, fusion-fueled ball of plasma and gas millions of miles away that destroyed the atmospheres of all of the inner planets (including Mars, which is farther away from it than we are) and would do the same to ours if we weren't lucky enough to have a magnetic field that diverts the solar wind.

The cute little pinpricks of light you see out there are other giant, explosive, incredibly pissed-off balls of gas floating in an infinite void, most of which are far more impressive than our puny sun. And that smear of milky white through the sky? That's the center of our own galaxy -- a gigantic pinwheel circling a supermassive black hole like floating detritus around the vortex of a flushing toilet.