MY SPACE FORCE DIARY
From CNN.com, May 1, 2018 — President Donald Trump signaled once again on Tuesday that he wants to create a new branch of the US military dedicated to fighting in outer space. “You probably haven’t even heard that. I’m just telling you now. We’re getting very big in space, both militarily and for other reasons, and we are seriously thinking of the Space Force,” he said.
July 5, 2020 — Here I am! Very excited to be out in space, a dream I’ve had since I was a little boy watching footage of the Challenger crash and thinking, What a bunch of losers. I could do better. I’m much smarter. And now look at me, tucked into my own single-occupancy aerovehicle, adrift in the placental womb of nothingness known as outer space. Should be coming upon the moon by tomorrow, probably get to Mars within a few months. I’m loving this view of Earth from way far away; all our problems seem so silly from out here. I mean, who cares about trade wars when you see how teeny-tiny our planet is? The fact is, if humans realized how insignificant they were, trade wars would be easy to win.
July 10, 2020 — Now that I’m out here and the novelty of being interplanetary has worn off, I have to admit: it’s a little boring. I mean, it’s beautiful and all, but nothing happens. I guess I’m still smarting from my assignment as a patrolman on the United States Space Ship Trump, when I really should have been named General of the entire Space Force. I mean, I was the youngest person to ever attend space camp, served in the military for eight years, graduated first in my class from M.I.T. AeroAstro, and headed several NASA missions under the previous Administration. I still can’t believe the President gave the position to Dennis Rodman, although I agree he is a really good guy.
September 22, 2020 — I’m now securely positioned behind Mars, facing outward, got a great view of… pretty much everything in the universe. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me and I start to think my aerovehicle’s Plexiglas windshield is covered in the thick black paint we used to smear under our eyes before a football game in high school: that’s how dark it is out here. Sometimes I shoot a laser blast out into the darkness. I tell myself it’s to make sure my weapons are still operational, but really it’s just to see something move in front of me.
November 4, 2020 — I miss the earth so much. I miss my wife. I guess she’s had the baby by now. General Rodman won’t allow us to communicate with anyone on Earth except for him and the President, because he says knowing what’s happening back home will distract us from keeping a lookout for… what? I hate to admit this, but I’m still not totally sure what I’m supposed to be patrolling for out here. In nine months of training leading up to our launch, we were never told what we were guarding, or guarding against. Probably a little late to ask. I guess it could be Russian or maybe Chinese astronauts? It’s hard to say, since the President sometimes likes those governments and other times threatens to blow them up. Maybe… illegal aliens?
I can’t really be sure whether I’m protecting the earth and its inhabitants, or maybe the President thinks we own Mars and had better keep an eye on it, or maybe he expects all the fighting back home to eventually go interplanetary and he just wants to make sure we’ll have the first men on the ground. Or whatever. Either way, I’m ready. My lasers definitely work.
December 9, 2020 — I wonder how things are going back home. Whether Congress has gotten back up and running yet; whether the dust has settled after the North Korea attack. I wonder if there’s a new President, and whether he or she (but let’s be real, probably he) will cancel our mission and I’ll be able to go home soon. Sometimes, in my darker moments, I even wonder whether there’s a home to go back to at all. But then, eventually, Captain Rodman radios in to check on me and let me know that, no, no updates on my mission yet; “just keep watchin’.” At this point, I’m almost hoping for a space war.
January 1, 2021 — Am I able to celebrate the turn of a New Year if I’m no longer on the planet that gauges time in that specific way? What, really, is a “year” if you are stationed, static, behind a planet that rotates at a different speed from your home planet? I’m following Mars around the sun but I do not rotate independently, therefore do not honor the concept of a “day.” What, then, is a year without days? Also, I can’t believe how much I miss Carson Daly’s stupid handsome face when the ball drops.
April 17, 2021 — I’m so fucking tired of dehydrated ice cream. And dehydrated chicken. I miss pizza so much I fantasize about it. I have the dehydrated beef Wellington every few weeks when I’m feeling fancy; if I work hard and chew the stringy strips of beef just right, it almost tastes good, not too different from the super-processed jerky I used to carry on hikes with my Pop growing up. Then there’s the lasagna. If I really flex my imagination, it almost, almost tastes like my mom’s, except without the crucial seasonings of bosomy hugs and Catholic guilt. To be honest, though, my imagination is starting to wear pretty thin these days. I’ve read the few books I have out here, Gulliver’s Travels, Tom Sawyer, and The Odyssey, about a gazillion times already. Oh, and the Bible. Talk about imagination.
June 3, 2021 — The most beautiful and awful thing happened. I was sitting in my captain’s chair, staring out at the endless, useless void, thinking about jerking off again but not really into it — it’s not really fun anymore — when into view came another aerovehicle, one that looked to be from our fleet. I checked the name on the side — yes, another U.S.S.S. Trump (they’re all named that). I jumped out of my seat and ran to the windshield, pressing my palms to the Plexiglas, so desperate I didn’t even care what a pussy I looked like. The other ship’s captain, this dude from Florida named Ryan I remember from training, was standing with his back to his windshield. I banged on the Plexiglas and shouted his name like some chick from a love movie. Like that was gonna do anything. I longed for him to turn around, to see me, to make eye contact — it’s been almost a whole year since I’ve made eye contact with literally any creature in the universe. Then I noticed his right arm moving back and forth in a rhythmic motion, and I realized he was jerking off. I don’t blame him for being turned around; it’s super depressing to jerk off gazing into the abyss.
After that, I only half-hoped he’d turn around and see me. This is the thing about being in the Force: there are no horns in space. We can only radio into Ground Control and the General directly. If I wanted Ryan to see me, I’d have to interrupt his yank session by shooting a laser his way. I couldn’t do that, so I just leaned against the windshield, my fingers clinging to Plexiglas like a gecko on a windowsill, and watched the other U.S.S.S. Trump drift away. I felt a hollowness, a heaviness, in my chest as I slunk back down into my chair. I looked out at the darkness. Eleven months down. Only three years left to go.
