Interesting Facts about Space

by Emily R. Austin

The man is bald.

In an effort to soften the blow of her wife’s infidelity, I am offering her solace in the fact that at least I am a disgusting slob.

I shampoo and condition my hair, and then Polly’s. I rinse her curls and wring the water out. I consider shaving my legs but am concerned the precedent set might require I also shave hers, which is more than I feel qualified, or willing, to do.

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.

Sometimes I report the videos, hoping some benevolent YouTube employee will find it in their heart to remove them, but mostly I just watch them as a sort of self-harm.

“Today we are going to go for a more natural look,” I tell my audience. I then open a predominately purple makeup palette. “You can use bright colors and still look natural,” I assure my undoubtedly uneasy viewers as I apply dark shadow directly beneath my brow bone.

It either means that ghosts exist, or more likely, and more worrisome—it means that I am capable of hallucinating.

I struggle to stomach sincerity, or to express any authentic emotion, because everything feels insincere when you suspect that deep down, in the chasm of yourself, the most sentient part of you is a little ill-intentioned monster. I

!!!

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

want to heckle that I wish I were someone different. I hate my voice. I hate the words I choose. I hate my instincts and the way I think. I hate that I am self-absorbed enough to hate myself in detail. I think I am a bad person. 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.

like...

Killing someone is not much of a feat. It is simple, logistically, to kill someone. People die pretty easily.

believe it is more of an accomplishment to never kill someone.

Sometimes, when I have a nice interaction with someone, I hope I never see them again.

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

“Even if she had heard you, shoving people is unacceptable! You’re in a society!”

When we sit there, though, I feel like we are moths drawn to the memory of what an oven can do to sad women.

Not because it’s sad, but because it’s strange to discover that I’ve had shared experiences.