Space is like that house party you didn’t want to go to but all your friends made you feel lame for wanting to stay home to watch Golden Girls reruns with your dog and nine bottles of wine. So you begrudgingly go to the party and have really bad anxiety because even though everything is super chill, you’re wigging the fuck out because ohmyfuckingshitbonnet, you’re in outer space! Aliens! Astroids! Balls of fire (real ones, not the Jerry Lee Lewis kind)! So you try to leave but then you realize the bitch that drove you is totally wasted-face and you can’t drive because you’re basically having a panic attack and ate way too much astronaut ice cream to operate a vehicle properly. So you’re stuck, trying to pretend like everything’s cool and not a big deal while people around you whisper “Oh her? Ugh. She’s probably just in a bad mood…like she always is!” So finally, after moping around in the black hole that is a poorly lit corner of the living room, you call a cab but it never comes or someone else takes it. (How would you know? You’re in a black hole.) So you sit on the couch next to a couple that will probably have to buy the morning after pill tomorrow and frown so hard your face hurts and eventually you pass out in that same spot after eating what’s left of the astronaut ice cream. When you wake up, you find that the couch is empty and no one even tried to molest you and you’re somehow disappointed about that, but you have bigger things to worry about, like where’s the spacecraft to take you home? Then you resign yourself to the fact that you’re just going to have to keep floating around until you find a ride because you’re in fucking space and what the fuck else are you going to do without gravity?
So you know what? I don’t have to go to space to know it’s terrible. I’ve been to space many times, in fact, I spent an entire year in college going to space every night and the only thing it got me was mono. So call me lame all you want, but I think space is gross and I have no desire to go.