Besotted, Bespotted

Let’s say in a delightful twist of fate something should lather my Great Red Spot with some benzoyl peroxide. Say every one of the estimated 115 billion people who have ever lived on the sole habitable planet in this solar system has had their face occupied by a great red spot at least once (on wedding days, job interviews, that sort of thing). Or during... Perfect Planetary Alignment!!

Which is today. 

Endlessly, I watch passing asteroids, pockmarked, but these are friable. I see all 95 of my orbiting moons don crescents to conceal their pitted faces. As I turn, I am envious of Neptune’s deep blue complexion. Spinning back, Saturn flits into view like a child king spinning a hula hoop. Also: Mars. I've a soft spot for Him. An overly red face from a never-ending solar flare-up of rosacea. Ugh, it's those dust clouds: damn cosmic gluten, if you ask me. 

Then out beyond a solitary pearl across the panther pelt of space, another; caramel continents of matcha through white, wispy sheets, swirling like smoke. Sapphire cloaks and glacial tiaras dress the rotund Mother like a two-shade nebula. She cradles her children. There is an Africa, and an Australia. A few spalled shards they call The Maldives. It is very much like a pristine, pliable clump of stardust in the black, pottering hand of God. 

Earth. The Great Pirouette. 

I gaze at one of its dark spots—a passing storm that batters its firmament at the protest of its sun-spanked sea. Otherwise, she is a delicate beauty with cosmetic fortune. 

I rotate fully in about the length of an average human work shift, I'm told, so I’ve got time to stare and remain entranced, embarrassing as that is, embarrassed as I am about it. 

It’s this goddamn Great Red Spot, see. 

To me, it’s just a 350-year-old storm. To everything else, it’s a 15,400-mile zit. That’s roughly 1.3 times the diameter of Earth. Now, here’s a question: would you date someone with a zit 1.3 times the size of you? 

Answer: no.

You’d call them buddy. 

After a while I spy in my periphery the faint but dignified celestial spotlight of Uranus. Turning to face Him, I ask with Jovian thunder, ‘Storm and stone, why call thee Uranus?’, like I haven’t asked before, and His response is, with a bloated sigh, ‘Because I’m full of gas.’ 

Gets me every time. 

Poor Uranus, though. They say scent offends most, and everyone knows He’s cloud over core for Titan (Saturn’s moon), who notably smells a bit like gasoline and almonds (that’s Bleu De Chanel perfume by space standards). I mean, we gas giants all have a scent, but Uranus is the unwashed butt of the Solar System. 

No chance, man. No chance, no chance. 

‘That spot isn’t going anywhere, is it, Jupiter?’ howls Uranus. And I respond with a dignified, ‘It’s just a storm, man. Void, I am the storm!’

He opts for this: ‘Scary.’ 

And I say, ‘Must be tough, smelling like a space-rat.’ 

And He says, ‘Gosh Golly, you’re in a mood today.’ 

And I say, ‘It’s this damn spot, it won't abate. And nice to see you, too. How’s long’s it been?’ 

‘From my perspective, a season or a few Uranus months ago. You?’

‘A little over a year ago, yeah.’ 

Back and forth, round and round. 

Jupiter. Uranus. Jupiter. Uranus. 

Jupiter’s vacuuming Trojan asteroids from its ebony carpet, trying to win Earth’s attention like a show-off feminine knight in golden armour with storm-formed pauldrons and icy jewels. 

He looks magnificent. So what if Earth dotes on Him? 

Uranus is back, rotating like a lazy turtle chasing a wayward ripple. ‘Best thing you can do,’ He says, ‘slather some benzoyl peroxide on it. It’ll calm the spot right down.’

‘Calm’s right,’ I say. ‘But it’s a storm. It just needs time.’ 

‘Until the next one appears,’ Uranus says. 

‘Oh Jove’s Thunder, don’t say that!’ 

We talk for weeks. Part ways. Until next time. 

Months pass. 

The spot is shrinking but still young. It faces toward Earth like a cherubic newborn. Earth rotates, Her splatter-of-paint eye glancing sideways, her little South America smirk. 

I do not say anything, besotted, bespotted gashead I am. I drift for many months more. I get the idea that Earth and Saturn are fucking. That’s the nature of gorgeous things; they cling together, like God’s balls in His great divine zipper. 

This little squall across my face, it shrinks yet somehow grows. I know, I know it’s slowly shrinking—but it just gets bigger and bigger, you know? 

‘Have you checked out that dating app, Jupiter? It’s called Gravitate. How’d I meet my exoplanet? At a Big Bang. Did I “conjoin” with Mercury? No comet’ 

Wild Venus, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

To be honest, I guess I’m feeling a little deflated. I guess I’m all, I don’t know, feeling like a tiny particle adrift the vast, cold, finite infinity with a cycloptic, oozing blister of tempests and feel like I’ve got something to hide. 

They call that shame. 

It could be worse. It is worse for the sun. He’s got sunspots basically the size of me, and He'll just keep flaring up, and He’s always searing angry about it, and no wonder. 

Okay, friggin: do I do it? I’m doing it. Yeah, let’s do it. It’s done. 

Discovery Settings, Search Distance: 5,000,000,000 miles >>>>>>>>> 2.5 million light-years.

Show Ages: 3,500,000,000 <<<<>>>> 6,000,000,000

Gravitate account’s all set up.

By the way, here’s my bio: I’m the planet with a Huge Red Eye, but I promise, I’m not high. 

It sounds like a rap bar, but it'll do. 

I begin swiping. 

Venus 4,503,000,000

416 million kilometres away.

‘Looking for someone to cool me off—if you can handle 900°F!’ :P 🔥🥵

There She goes… 

I swipe left. 

Pluto 4,500,000,000

3.7 billion miles away

Not technically a planet anymore but still proud. Swipe right if you are looking for something more than just Plutonic and can handle a little distance. 😎🪐

Right.

Proxima Centauri b 5,000,000,000

4.24 light-years away

Pros:

Habitable 

Spacious

Cons: 

Live far away

Tidally locked

Left.

You know, I bet you Saturn’s on here. I bet you he’s saying something like, ‘This ring doesn’t mean I’m taken.’ He’s like that.

Earth 4,540,000,000

484 miles away

I’m a down-to-Earth chick. :D Mother of seven billion. Environmentalist.

Gulp. Swipe Right. Gulp.

Hours later, a ping. 

IT'S AN ALIGNMENT! <3 You’ve matched with Earth! <3

Woah. Wait. Woah. 

I don’t say anything, nor does She. I can’t seem to think of something to say. Then I say, Did God really make you in six days? :P

And She says, ‘Are you sure you’re not high, Red Eye? :P’

And for the first time in 350 years… I think I can feel the storm settling.