Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

One of the perks of being a lesbian is that it is less critical for me to vet whether my date will kill me.

It’s hard for me to tell if he was ugly. 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 wish I had no way of remembering myself then. I wish watching myself as a teenager required that I fly light-years away from Earth.

As I got older, the imagination games morphed into daydreams. I invented interactions between me and my dad, as well as with other people. I did it so often that it’s now hard for me to distinguish between real memories and memories of scenarios I made up. Everything has melded together.

They look like women who have packaged themselves fully to oblige the male gaze.

I dont like this writing it feels misogynist

I don’t like thinking about it. Sometimes, when I’m grocery shopping, or out minding my own business, a little voice in my head reminds me that I’ve made my mom cry before. I wince at fleeting recollections of myself being terrible. I have this deep sense that I’ve done awful things—that I’ve really hurt someone—but I’m not sure if I actually have. When the bug in my head starts whispering about how rotten I am, I distract myself. I turn on a podcast.

I wish I imagined things less.

do think I am capable of doing something bad. Whether I have actually done anything unforgivable is hazy to me, but I have definitely wanted to. I think I am capable of it. I’m worried that at any moment, I am liable to be taken over by my parasite, and that I will hurt someone.

Sometimes, when things are broken, I find they fix themselves if you just pretend that they are fine and give them time.

When I was a kid, I would fixate on things that scared me. I thought of the sun exploding. I thought of fires. Murderers. I remember squeezing my eyes closed tightly, and reciting rhymes to prevent the thoughts from arising. I would whisper to myself rapidly, “Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?”

Even though I am about to lie naked, legs open, on this table in front of another human who will be examining my cervix, I still feel compelled to ensure that same human does not see even a hint of my underwear.

Me

‘female’ ” to my list of grievances. I say, “You think the reason women have interests is to be quirky?” “What? No, I didn’t say that. I just mean liking true crime in particular isn’t some oddity—” “But why do you think a woman’s objective in being into true crime is to be unique?” He stammers, “Why are you yelling?” I wasn’t yelling. “Are you into sports to be unique?” Vin asks. He frowns. “You’re both missing my point.” “I’m not,” I say.

I wish I could have one nice interaction with everyone and then disappear.

I remember standing still in a bar of moving people, the lights flashing red, and thinking, I would definitely rather have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease than remain in here.

“Let’s promise to never meet again so we can’t ruin it. Let’s stay nice people to each other to balance out how we’re bad for other people.”

“Don’t talk yourself out of fear. Fear is important. It keeps us safe. There is a reason we feel fear.”

My mom called me the next morning, asking for every detail. What was Edna’s dress like? What did Gina wear? What did Gina say? Was your grandma there? I told her the wedding was boring and normal, and that Gina’s dress made a roll of fat on her back. It really did do that, but I regretted telling her. She fixated on it and discussed it at length for days. She still brings it up sometimes. “Imagine having a back roll out at your daughter’s wedding!” It brought out the worst in her.

Heterosexuality is really shoved down children’s throats.

“That is a good example,” I say, “of me being a bad person. I think that is something I struggle with. I don’t like remembering things I did that prove I am a terrible person. Does that make sense?”

I bought the baby a yellow towel with a hood that will make her look like a duck. I also got baby shampoo and toiletries, and a little baby bathtub. I hear Gina behind me somewhere say, “I saw that towel on sale the other day, too! That’s so cute and what a bargain, right, Enid?”

Death penalty

“Yes. I feel that way all the time. I’m worried about being a mom because of it. I think, How could I be someone’s mom? I’m a terrible person. I’ll be a terrible mother. I’m going to accidentally scream at her when I’m angry. What if I shake her? I’m terrified. I keep picturing her as a little girl, and me treating her like I treated Kira.

Wow, would I rather be waterboarded or punched repeatedly in the face?

LOL

“Look at her last video. She posted herself lighting a match before her high school was lit on fire. Someone died in the fire. She killed someone.” I hear an alarm going off. I think a fire exit was just opened. She plays the video of me lighting a match. I watch my fingers drag the match and it spark. “Do you remember what all this is about?” she asks. I don’t reply. I hear ringing. She looks at me. “Are you okay?” she asks. I smell burning. I stand up. “I need to use the bathroom.”

WHAAAAAAAAT

welding rod. I touch the door with both my hands. It feels warm. You’re not supposed to open doors when they’re hot. There might be a fire behind them.

Omg how did i not piece this together

I will never understand how my dad could stand in the glow of my mom, as if an inch from a star, and be unmoved by her formidable light. It has been devastating to watch her fade in response to him.

“Yes.” She smiles. “I love weird little bugs, remember?”

:)