Look, I really love orbiting the Earth. It’s a beautiful planet (well, was much better before you people started screwing with it). But all that aside — could we talk about this ‘gaze up at me in the night sky’ business? I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable.
It used to be tolerable about a billion years ago when you people didn’t do much more than grunt and stuff. That was no biggie. But then you fuckers started talking, and you didn’t stop. I’m not sure what about people-culture impels you guys to look out your window at me, cup your face in your hands, and go, “where is she?” or “does he still love me?” or “I hope you’re out there.” Here are some questions for you: why the fuck would you ask me? Text her, call him! Google it! Make a Tinder! You’re burdening me with a lot of responsibility to like, know a bunch of stuff, and it’s just all around giving me the creeps.
Has it crossed your mind that I have insecurities too? Your looks really start to go when you get on in gigayears. I look nothing like I did at a million. The crater situation? Rough. Don’t think I haven’t tried every treatment from here to Jupiter, I have. And it really adds insult to injury when you name the craters. How would you like it if I named that fat pimple on your forehead, Bethany? Should I call it Copernicus or Tycho? Yeah.
I hope you guys have another outlet for your heartbreak and unrequited passions, I really do. Why not do what you usually do, like make a fake Instagram to stalk your ex? Or write bad poetry? I have my own girls to moon over. You think your chicks are hot? I just dumped Venus. That girl is eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. And full disclosure, Brittany, when you gazed up at me and said, “I bet Jack is looking up at you right now, wherever he is” — Jack was not looking up at me, he was smoking a flat blunt on his couch. Move on.
Oh and for what it’s worth, you “Pink Floyd” guys gave my dark side way too much credit. It’s just where I store my gnomes. And that cute little baby flag you guys stuck in my face.
