Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

Having one headphone in signals that I am open to small talk, or to having my shoulder tapped on. I am not, so I put in both.

It makes me feel safe, like there’s no reason to panic. Sure, women get their heads chopped off by men who vowed to love them forever, but we can still plan to eat Atlantic salmon on basmati rice next week.

I hate being startled. I prefer controlled forms of fear. I like my podcasts, horror movies, and ghost stories that I can pause and rewind. I handle fear sort of like a warhorse. I could charge bravely into a planned battle, take in the sights of bombs and corpses, but I would still be spooked by an unanticipated barn rat.

In a green, green room there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of Ted Bundy with his unibrow. There were three little bears, sitting on chairs, and at least twenty victims. And a little toy house, and a young mouse, and a comb and a brush and corpse made of mush. And a bald man whispering “hush.” Goodnight moon, goodnight tomb.

Humanity will die out before that happens. The typical life span of a large mammal species is a few million years.”

“Ted Bundy wasn’t actually hot,” I tell the throng of women sitting with me on Gina’s beige sectional. “That is just the narrative pushed to make the story interesting. Look at him.” I open an ugly photo of him on my phone. I show it to everyone. “This guy looks like he’d bludgeon and rape a woman with a metal rod from her bedframe, doesn’t he?”

I fight an impulse to warn Edna that “Amelia Di” sounds a lot like “Amelia Dyer,” who was a famous Victorian serial killer. I have, however, exceeded my serial killer conversation quota for this baby genital reveal party—so I will keep this information to myself.

I hope there’s an alternate universe where my mom is married to some kindhearted man who loves her. I hope she has a sewing room, and multiple well-adjusted kids. I think that would have happened if I weren’t born.

I can’t tell people things like, It’s always so nice to see you, let alone say something like, I love you, without feeling my insides curdle. I have to tell them about sunsets on Mars or bake them offensive cakes. I bet she tells Gina she loves her. I bet she doesn’t know anything about stars.

Sometimes I think I have a parasite. I feel like there is a creature crawling inside me, trying to migrate to my brain. I picture him like Plankton from SpongeBob SquarePants; a malevolent little mastermind who is trying to use my body like a Trojan horse.

I worry that I am a shell for something bad. That deep down, in the spot where most people keep their souls, I keep a weird little bug. I picture him there, leaning on the apple core of my soul, crunching on what remains of what’s good of me. I struggle to stomach sincerity, or to express any authentic emotion, because everything feels insincere when you suspect that deep ...

When she is depressed, she doesn’t admit it. She never discusses how she feels or asks for help. It is apparent by the state of her home and her body, but she always speaks as if everything is the same. I was molded by her behavior, so when I feel compelled to confront her about it, rather than say, “You are depressed,” I say, “Your house is dirty.” I say, “You’re not wearing lipstick.”

I usually observe a similar ritual anytime I expect company. It is how I get into the role. I put perfumes over the true smell of my skin and whittle off all the controllable reasons why someone might dislike me.

There is something soothing about being rejected. It really anchors you in your body. It feels like a bath.

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

My approach to dating is to say as little as possible. I find people fill in the gaps with what they want. They imagine I am whoever they decide I am. I used to be too quiet. I learned as I aged that I need to say what needs to be said to keep conversations rolling. I give brief answers and then I ask questions. I say things like, “That’s interesting, tell me more about that.”

Even when I’m not viewing footage of me on YouTube, I always feel sort of tortured as my own spectator. I want to boo, cringe, and splat rotten fruit at my own head until someone closes the curtains.

I feel self-loathing so deeply I think if I cracked myself open, I would see the physical manifestation of it calcified in my bones like a geode.

my brain likes torturing me.

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

“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.”

Child-me clears her throat while now-me cringes. Very solemnly, I recite: “I will be a ghost when I am not a child I will frighten you.” The video ends. What the fuck? Did I think that creepy-ass poem would woo Ms. Lemon? I click “report video.”

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