Go to the moon, they said. It’s got a great atmosphere, they said. What no one told me is that the moon is fucking dead in June. No wonder this trip was so cheap. Everyone’s got somewhere better to be at this time of year, except the Plutites, and they’re even more boring than Canadians. I guess anything’s exciting when you live on a cold, dark rock. Pluto, not Canada.
There’s not much to do here right now. The dust park, with its lunar flumes, is shut. The moon mall can only entertain me for so long. So I resort to day drinking at the local pub, One Small Step, chatting to the cute barmaid. I say cute – she’s got six eyes and four tentacles, but after a few Gagarin garglers and shots of Buzz juice she looks just fine to me.
I suppose this trip has had its moments. I’ve seen the dark side of the moon. I’ve been crater hopping. And Earth looks pretty sweet from up here, with those blue and green swirls. Sweet enough to make me wish I could go back. But there’s even less atmosphere down there nowadays than there is up here.
So I don’t think I’ll be coming to the moon again. Next year, I want a bit more sun. I’ve heard Venus is the place to be.
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