Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

I’m already well acquainted with Ted, but I don’t mind hearing the same story over and over. In fact, I prefer it. I like knowing what happens. I feel more control over it.

I can tell that I wouldn’t be attracted to him, but that is true of every man except for a few very specific celebrities, and some fictional male characters who were written by women.

I don’t think I am what someone would envision if they cut into a cake and saw pink.

I wonder why some people are like her, and why some people are like me.

I have to tell them about sunsets on Mars or bake them offensive cakes.

When the bug in my head starts whispering about how rotten I am, I distract myself. I turn on a podcast.

I have just learned that people in small towns don’t lock their doors until they find out the local turkey farmer tortures people in his shed.

My hobbies include listening to murder stories, having casual lesbian sex, and telling my mom interesting facts about space.

I have learned how to mimic manners I wish came to me naturally.

I want to boo, cringe, and splat rotten fruit at my own head until someone closes the curtains.

I have been struggling lately with an irrational fear of bald men.

“Would you say I light up a room?” I ask. He chokes. “What?” “I noticed from my podcast that women who light up rooms get murdered.” He laughs. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

I pretend to write things in my notebook, but really, I just write the word “fuck” over and over and over.

I think I wanted to become a nurse in the same way I wanted to become a man’s wife, or a mother. I thought it would look good on paper.

Despite being gay, I used to think about boys a lot. I wanted boyfriends when I was a teenager.

I’m always fighting this impulse to find people who might love me. I make dating profiles and meet up with them to validate myself. It feels like a game.

“I love weird little bugs, remember?”