Don't Cancel the Mars Mission

I desperately need to get back home. I've obviously been left on this planet by mistake. I'm sure that the beings that left me here are ready to pick me back up, but the planet known as "Earth" doesn't seem to be friendly to visitors, at the moment.

Really. What does this planet offer intelligent beings? Good coffee?

Resources? There are obviously lots of other places with concentrations of desirable materials, probably offering such goods at better prices. From here, the universe looks like a pretty big place. At least to me. To some others, not so much.

I, myself, am cheap. I’ve worked on this lump of dirt in many capacities. My needs remain simple.

I’ve clawed my way to the top of some weird heap, where I get to use my brain to make money. Why, then, do I feel like a slave, ready to break out and steal a ship and escape to some new place? Someplace where there is real freedom? I suddenly want to have some healthy farm-type pigs just so I can take them with me to this new place.

Single White Guitarist in search of undiscovered free places. Call me. We’ll talk, or pretend to. Must like dogs and/or pigs. Pigs are smart. Smarter than horses. Do pigs dream?

I had this feverish dream, when I was about four years old and living in a four room farmhouse in West Texas, around 1960, where I understood that the Earth was about to be destroyed, and that I had been deposited with an Earthen family for experimental purposes. I “felt” the launching of the destruction. To this day, I remain unconvinced that it was a dream.

I would like to proclaim the experiment a success. I saw what could happen had missiles been launched. I cleaned my plate. I washed my hands after using the bathroom. I knelt in front of the steel lockers with my head between my legs. After the fever, I felt cleansed. I sought rewards.

I attempted to cut back on masturbation.

Not like now.

Looking at the Earth now, I can see how it might look like a big mess, especially from a reasonable distance.

Why is it that these tiny creatures insist on fighting? What is it about this thing called “war,” which is abominable in all respects, that continues to occupy so much creature time? Raping the land, polluting everything, no vision of future, no respect for past, depositing money in tax-free accounts, frowning on every other aspect of sexual activity while masturbating to the beat of the drum of power…

Surely the ships can come in without notice, here?

My bags are always packed.

Take me home. This does not feel like home, anymore.

Perhaps if I met you on Mars, it’d be an easier deal. You do accept Rat Terriers, don’t you? MasterCard? Visa?

I’d love to set up house on Mars. I’m sure I would feel more at home there than I do here.

This place is pretty fucked up.

Unfortunately, I don’t see it getting better anytime soon.

I long to go home, again. I’m ready for you to pick me up. Take me home.