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Saturday, February 01, 2003
God. Fucking. Dammit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Son of a bitch. Fucking damn fuck shit fuck. Jesus. Fuck.
On January 28, 1986, I had my first run-in with the emotion I call "impotent rage". I was in 3rd grade. Just got done with reading. The janitor, Mr. Saathoff came in and told us that the Space Shuttle "Challenger" had exploded. All my life I had wanted to be an astronaut. I don't know why. I had no plans of joining the Air Force or anything like that. I just wanted to be an astronaut. Everything changed. I remember that I was the only boy who cried. I remember designing escape modules for the Space Shuttle. Space Shuttles DO NOT explode on launch. Astronauts DO NOT die in accidents like that. These things are NOT allowed, God dammit. There are rules. Astronauts are heroes, and space travel is supposed to work without explosions, and Pan-Am owes me a trip to the space station, and that's supposed to work out in the end. And now, we lost another one. I'm bracing myself for another round of jokes about what NASA stands for, and which members of the crew had dandruff. I'm upset. We're supposed to be going to Mars in a few years. I guess that I can scratch that. W had better not cut funding to NASA, that fuck. Hydrogen cars, my ass. And, the day just gets better. A former co-worker of mine died in a car accident this morning. Just fucking great. He graduated from college, joined the Peace Corp, spent two years in Moldova, came back, got a job as the coordinator of the bioterrorism task force here, and died in a car crash today. Fucking God dammit. Jesus fuck. Shit, dammit, fuck. I am terrible at writing epitaphs. Comments by: YACCS |