Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

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.

The host describes Ted as attractive. That is often the narrative pushed about him. I have learned, however, that it is not true. I’ve heard that his victims often thought that he was creepy-looking. They helped him anyways, because of the broken arm schtick, and because women are trained to be polite to men even when men are ugly and make them feel uncomfortable. Some pictures of Ted are moderately handsome, I guess. In some photos he looks strange. 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 look like my mom. Strangers have approached me before to ask if I am her daughter. I am taller than she is, and have someone else’s hands, but I am often told that I am the spitting image of her. She is chicer than I am. She wears bright colors and complicated shoes. I don’t pluck my eyebrows or wear makeup, but she always wears lipstick, unless she’s sad, and her brows are always groomed.

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 feed the evil bug in my heart depraved stories. I distract myself and soothe him in a little bath of horrors until my anger simmers and my molars unclench.

Child-me slouches, chewing on strands of her hair, and yanking her T-shirt away from her torso. I have trained that sort of behavior out of me, like you might train a puppy not to nip, but deep down, under my spitless hair and straight posture, I am still that animal. I want to gnaw on the cuffs of my sweaters and let my hair drape over my eyes like a curtain.

“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.”

When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a nurse. Despite feeling squeamish around needles and blood, having weak social skills, and no interest in biology or gym class—I thought becoming a nurse was right for me. 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. I thought people would think favorably of me if I was a nurse. It would prove something. I thought of it as a feminine career that required higher education and that attracted the type of girls who I felt judged by, and who I judged. I think I considered becoming a nurse synonymous with becoming normal.

“Do you think it’s more likely that a mouse, a ghost, or a burglar would take a grape?” I ask Vin.

The truth is that knowing there are photos of bald men in my possession makes me feel like I possess a cursed book bound in human flesh. I feel burdened by a dark, malevolent energy.

I’d rather keep my phobia. I suspect I’ll be keeping it regardless. This is just an expensive way of hurting myself.

does sorta feel like an accurate description of therapy