TW: Potty talk

Wake. Eat. Monitor. Eat. Sleep::

Wake. Eat. Monitor. Eat. Sleep::

Wake. Eat. Monitor. Eat. Sleep::

: Good morning, Mr. Jackson. Are you ready for another beautiful day in space? Look at the stars, they are beautiful today.>

"Computer, yes, good morning. The stars are beautiful, yes, I agree."

: Would you like me to send the progress update to the monitor, Mr. Jackson?>

"Yes, computer, thank you."

: Mr. Reishik is awaiting your relief on the main deck. Will you be there shortly?>

"Yes, computer."

: Thank you, I will inform him.>

Eat

Monitor

Eat

Sleep

: Mr. Jackson, are you ready for your sleep phase?>

"Yes, computer, I am ready."

: Do I sense dissatisfaction in your voice, Mr. Jackson?>

"Computer, now is not the time. Please, commence sleep phase."

: Yes, Mr. Jackson. Would you like me to play music by Mozart to equilibrate your mood?>

"Thank you for asking, computer. How about...The Beatles..."

: My pleasure, sir. Now playing Because... by The Beatles.>

~~~~

I swear, sometimes I am just about to peel off those metal sheets with my bare hands and start pulling wires. It's absolutely–

: Mr. Jackson, would you like me to disable Mind Link technology as well?>

"Computer...yes... Please disable Mind Link."

: You are welcome, sir. Now commencing sleep phase.>

It's absolutely the worst idea! 

All of it! I can't stand it anymore. I just want to be on Earth, feet planted firmly on the ground, with a big burrito in hand, a burrito that's not made of ingredients grown from my recycled feces! That's all there is, I wake up, I get the updates, and what do I have to look forward to? Freshly grown oats, but it's just organically refined fecal matter. I mean, most soil is inherently that or dead stuff, but the waste-to-food leg of the cycle is just too short in this case. My rice from two days ago is already growing into my rice for the return voyage; it sickens me. Alex and I have been surviving like this on this ship for 2 years now, just the two of us, and I don't know about him but I'm about to lose it. For the love of God, please there must be a better way to live in space. 

Being an astronaut is the coolest job to any land walker, as we call them, but no one mentions the food cycle; it's not the most glorious aspect of space travel. Alex and I have gotten pretty close to each other, you know, dining on each other's ***t, but that's probably the only good side; I bet the old, dehydrated space food rivals this. It’s actually not bad, it’s just the thought of it that’s getting to me. I miss Chipotle. Someone, anyone, if you can hear my thoughts, please launch a burrito to me at light speed. Dear God, please, I need Chipotle…

Sleep overwhelms our weary space traveler, and as he sleeps, he dreams a vivid dream.

*

**

***

****

“Darling.”

Startled, he grunts. He turns to see a woman he recognizes but he can’t say where from.

“Darling, I brought you Chipotle, it’s just what you wanted.”

Words fail him. He peels at the foil, and peels.

“It’s–it’s just foil”, he exclaims. “It’s just foil!”

In a blind fit of rage, he launches the foily mass across the room. Instead of landing, it begins to orbit around the mystery woman like a lonely moon. In a stupor, he lurches forward towards the door in one big dream step. The door opens with ease, but he’s long forgotten what it’s like to open a door and it feels foreign to him. He looks down at his hand grasping the knob and his consciousness plummets headlong into the shiny stainless steel. He feels the rush of falling from a great height and he rockets back into the real world, jolting upright like a dog’s tail when it sees a squirrel.

“Ah, just a dream.” He thinks as he rubs his eyes.

"Man, I miss Chipotle even more now."

Wake

  : Mr. Jackson, good morning. It is a beautiful day today, take a look at the stars. They’re so beautiful.>

“Yes, computer. Good morning.”

  : Mr. Jackson, do I detect irritation in your voice?>

“You know what? Yes, you do. Good job. I am irritated. You’re so perceptive.”

  : Mr. Jackson, is that sarcasm? You know how I dislike sarcasm. I have to process all possible outcomes, considering all possible relevancies with the utmost degree of seriousness before considering the possibility of sarcasm.>

“Just send me the update.”

  : Transmitting the update to your monitor now, Mr. Jackson.>

“Thank you.”

Eat

I make my way to the main deck and I can hear the computer firing off one last question, but it will just have to go unanswered. I alert Alex, letting him know I am ready to relieve him, and the door panels across the deck spin open. He waltzes in from the monitoring deck and with the same solemn face, he looks at me square in the eyes.

“You ready to eat this ***t?”

“Am I ever not ready?”

“Computer, pile it on! Mr. Jackson wants extra beans for breakfast!”

  : I do not compute, Mr. Reishik.>

“Computer, don’t listen to him. I’ll have oats.”

We don’t have the widest variety of foods to choose from. It’s just not feasible to grow an entire food forest in a modestly sized spaceship. There is a lot of food growing, though. It’s actually quite impressive.

  : Mr. Reishik, what would you like for your dinner?>

“Beans, computer. Give me beans or give me death.”

  : As you wish, Mr. Reishik. Coming right up, gentlemen.>

“You’re really going to eat just beans? You can get three items and you’re just going with beans all around?”

“Yep. Beans, beans, the magical fruit…super-charged beans, these are, matey. Argh”

He gave a little wink and went back to the beans.

He loved being a space pirate.

I could tell he was just hardly coping with this lifestyle, maybe no better than myself. We’re in the same boat…err…spaceship. He sat there rattling off jokes, updating me on all I had missed out on, twirling his fork around, poking at the beans like a kid. I ate my oats just nodding along and piping in here and there.

“You know,” I started, tapping my spoon on the floor of my near-empty bowl, “I am really craving Chipotle, and you getting beans really makes me want a big sloppy, beany Chipotle burrito.”

“Yeah, well I can ***t you out a burrito, just give me one harvest season and you’ll have your burrito.”

God, it’s like he did not realize the direness of the situation here. Like, I am really craving a Chipotle burrito. It’s driving me absolutely crazy. I need that hot goodness in my hands right now. I need it.

Monitor

An hour has already passed, and nothing out of the ordinary. This thing can just fly itself, it shouldn’t need us. I don’t know why we’re even here, it’s like there’s some underlying human experiment that we’re subject to; if there is, I hope they’re at least learning a lot. I sit, rapping my fingers on the monitor, this question still eating at my mind.

  : Mr. Jackson, are you okay?>

“Yes, computer. I’m fine. Please, don’t ask me again.”

It always asks again if I don’t tell it not to.

  : Is there anything I can do that will equilibrate your mood?>

“As a matter of fact, there is. You can get me a fat, juicy Chipotle burrito and plop that bad boy on my plate for dinner. That is what would make me a happy man right about now.”

  : Mr. Jackson, I detect hostility in your voice. If you do not display a more calm demeanor, I will have to initiate corrective action.>

My blood is boiling. Within my gut, a thousand fists form, clenching tight onto what was likely the same Chipotle from before takeoff, recycled through and through, and then I explode. Like a mad man, I run to the control panel adjacent to the deck door, and with all my might, I start to pry off the panel. I peek in looking hopelessly for something that looks like an off button or some power cord I can pull to just make it all quiet and private for just a day. Just one day. It’s just all hi-tech spaghetti! I see something that looks like a power plug, but it’s too far back to reach it. I squeeze all my arm in through the gap, but then in the back of my neck I feel a sting, nothing too painful, but as I’m scrambling for the wire I start to slip. I can’t feel my legs. It’s fading. No. Again?

Well, folks, it looks like our weary traveler let his emotions get the best of him. I, personally, can’t say what will become of him. He’ll probably wake up in his sleeping pod with no recollection of the fiasco, that is if the computer considers him fit for duty like before. We shall see. We shall see...