For some people, their birthday is an annual marker of how time is passing them by. For some it’s the New Year and the promise of broken resolutions. But for me, there’s a more robust indicator; the moon.
It’s a constant reminder in the sky that I’m never going to be an astronaut.
So I have this giant visual metaphor telling me that my life is ebbing away in twenty eight day cycles. I need a tampon for the soul.
I have a deep rooted loathing for that fat lunar bastard.
And I particularly despise its agent. How many times must I be watching an otherwise enjoyable and engaging film, only for that silver prick to barge in and remind me I’m dying? Hmm?
That snow white testicle in the sky is never pretty, it’s never awe inspiring and it most certainly is never welcome in my house.
I mean, what has the moon ever done for us? Huh? Eh? Yeah wow, tides. And werewolves, and they don’t even exist.
And because of some very complicated tidal forces, the moon is actually getting further and further away from the Earth with each passing year. About a centimetre further annually in fact. So I am LITERALLY getting further from my dream of walking on the Sea of Tranquillity.
It started so well. When I was growing up I was actually getting closer to it, but once I got older it began getting further from my grasp. Now, the only way I can imagine I’ll ever get any closer to realising my dream is to strap two toddlers to my feet and taunt them to grow quicker.
So yes. The moon can fuck off.
