Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

“Thank you,” I say. “No problem. Why did that man shove you?” “I’m not sure.” She stands up. “He must have anger management issues.” I nod. “He probably has a parasite.” “What?” “Nothing. Thank you again.”

I feel like a stray dog, rejected by our sire, trying to be accepted in his new litter of puppies. I don’t want them to think I’m some fleabag mutt, or a coyote masquerading as a house dog. I’m a purebred golden retriever, just like them. I want them to think I’m a clean, bug-free, normal dog. I want to prove that our dad was wrong. I am a good girl.

One of the perks of being a lesbian is that it is less critical for me to vet whether my date will kill me. I tend to fear I am the person in the equation who dates should be wary of.

I often go as far as to leave out books that I think reflect well on me, or to pause a premeditated show on my TV. I welcome my guest inside, acting as if I was just casually reading or watching, and not as if it has all been staged.

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.

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.

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 think on some level I am less interested in dating than I am in being repeatedly rejected so that I can stew in that comfortable bad feeling. There is something soothing about being rejected. It really anchors you in your body. It feels like a bath.

I feel pressure to perform, as if I am an actress wearing the mask of my own face, playing the role of a professional, put-together young lady.

I have learned how to mimic manners I wish came to me naturally. I have to remind myself how people use their hands. A theater prompter lives in my head and shouts cues at me incessantly.

The meat in my skull wants me to suffer. Maybe I deserve to suffer.

I have a feeling that what I should try to become has nothing to do with my job, though. If I had to guess, I’d bet I should be aspiring to become happy, or a good person, or something. That’s probably what enlightened people do.

She said, “You know, recently I realized that to my parents, I am someone different than to my friends. To my teachers, I am someone different than to my coworkers. Between my friends, ex-boyfriend, and roommates, I am someone totally different. I think if you picked two people from my life and asked them to describe me, they would describe two completely different people.” I thought of the people I went to school with. I thought of my new friends at university, the people I had dated, my mom, and my dad. I said, “I feel that way too.” She said, “To some of them, I’m bad.” I nodded. “Me too.” “Do you know who we really are? Do you know which person is right?” “None of them?” I guessed. “No, they all are,” she said.

“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.”

I spent a lot of time growing up trying to seem normal. Sometimes I worry I neglected doing the internal work most people do while they’re developing; I was too preoccupied camouflaging. I think I might be stunted because of it. I think I missed a step.

I feel like I’m still missing some crucial information that I need to fully form myself. I feel half-developed. I’m worried that if I were cut open, I’d see all my organs were half-made. I think I’m missing parts.