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. I tend to fear I am the person in the equation who dates should be wary of.

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.

I explain. “It’s a vortex big enough to engulf Earth. It’s been raging for centuries. There are records of it being seen over three hundred and fifty years ago. On Earth, hurricanes slow down when they reach solid land, but there is no solid surface on Jupiter.”

Depending on the orbit, we see Mars as it was three minutes ago, or twenty when it’s further away. Saturn is an hour. Our nearest star is four years. The Andromeda galaxy is 2.5 million years.”

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.

Hey mom, did you know sunsets on Mars are blue?

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.

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 down, in the chasm of yourself, the most sentient part of you is a little ill-intentioned monster.

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.

I think that if there were no one else alive I wouldn’t clean my house. I would pile garbage everywhere. I would collect wrappers, acorns, and rocks, and hoard them around me like a dirty little ferret. If I existed alone, I doubt I would wash my hair. I would shave my head. I would perch on a hill of my own trash, naked.

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

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

Hey mom, just letting you know Jupiter has sixty-seven moons.

Space is a vacuum, so it doesn’t carry sound waves like air on earth does. We have probes in space though that capture radio emissions. The radio emissions have been converted into sound waves. In them, Saturn sounds like a robot in a windstorm crying for help, and the magnetic field around Jupiter hums like a frozen lake.

Hey mom, just letting you know it rains diamonds on Jupiter and Saturn.

If Jupiter disappeared, Earth would be hit by more asteroids. Jupiter’s gravitational pull grabs a lot of space trash heading toward us.

“Aphids don’t need mates,” the narrator tells us. “They clone themselves. And their babies are born pregnant. All aphids are female. They give birth to both their daughters and their granddaughters. That’s why you only need one aphid to infest your garden.”

I used to ruminate when I was younger. I used to plan what I would say to people, and then think about what I had said.

I felt like I won a game that everyone pegged me for losing. I felt powerful and in control. I felt like a giant red star scorching Chelsea’s world, boiling her oceans, turning her lifeless.

I think that is something I struggle with. I don’t like remembering things I did that prove I am a terrible person.

A boy named Nick, or Rick, I don’t remember, joked that I was going to put my head in the oven. I didn’t know that was how Sylvia Plath died. At that point, I had stopped being the target of much bullying due to effort I put into being unobjectionable. I stopped reading the book. I pretended I didn’t like it. I said I thought it was weird.

You could kill yourself with anything if you tried hard enough.

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’ve dated girls before who told me gay people have two adolescences. The first is the one we’re taught to have, where we suppress ourselves. In that time period, we’re less likely to have experienced the growing pains associated with forming our true adult identities. We have our second adolescence late, after we realize who we are.

I realize I’m gay, but I don’t realize much of who I am beyond that. I feel like I’m still missing some crucial information that I need to fu...

I think I’m a bad person. I think I was born with the ingredient predators are born with. I don’t trust myself. I think if I don’t restrain myself, I become selfish, opportunistic, and dishonest. I am pretending to be someone normal, but I’m not. If I let my guard down, I am liable to hurt people.

I make dating profiles and meet up with them to validate myself. It feels like a game.

I want to test whether I can be loved; however, I think the way to test whether I am capable of truly loving people back is by ending things. I think if I really loved someone, I would stay away from them.

I hope I leave her alone. If you know you are capable of doing something abhorrent, like Ted Bundy, and you are unable to kill yourself because you have a mother, or a similar responsibility, then you should keep your distance. You should create space.

“Hey Mom, did you know moons can have moons?” “They’re called moon moons. Isn’t that cute?”