Okay, I Admit It, I’m Weird

I know I’m weird because 1) all my friends are weird, and B) I write weird stuff. Take this serious explanation of an alien’s visit to Earth, and the reasons behind the home planet’s desperation:

We will need to hurry to catch the number 6 train south. With the damage done to the subway lines from Hurricane Sandy last week, travel will be a chaotic mess. I suppose while we are trapped in the tunnels I take to work, I should explain more clearly why I am here. Lauretia is smaller than Earth, residing within a binary star system that consists of a white dwarf star paired with our sun, which we call the Light. Their close proximity causes the dwarf, which humans call T Pyxidis and which we call a name that translates to “Violent One,” to be a periodic nova star. Lauretia is actually a moon whose odd orbit keeps her safely on the far side of our sun, shielded from the damaging effects of its explosive companion.

Violent One has reached the end of her time. She is at most decades from going supernova, and will take with her our Light. Earth was the only inhabitable planet we could hope to reach before we all went “boom.” Quite literally, it is inhabit the Earth or bust. Obviously, as permanent guests from another world, we cannot go about abducting human forms whenever we please. Therefore, we will need mechanical bodies – which brings me again to Dr. Roman, whom I am beginning to believe to be a myth, like your Abraham Lincoln.

Wait. I am being quietly assaulted.

“Ow, ow, ow! Shit lady! Da fuck is wrong wit’chu?” The person screaming is a thirty-something male with dirty blond hair who is wearing a “Rock God” t-shirt. His most recent transcendent accomplishment was rubbing himself against my bottom. I keep my hair short and wear sunglasses whenever I am in public. My research has shown this combination to be the most intimidating to men. The Rock God did not read the research.

“Don’t freaking touch me again, son! I will pull your shit off!” Yes, that’s me talking. I do try to speak the native language when I am here, but still, I have lost my temper. Controlling this body’s responses is more complex than my previous jumps. My assailant is fortunate I allowed him to squeeze away from me, his scrotum mostly intact.

The entire train car is staring at me. In New York City, that is remarkable. I abhor human emotions. I hate this body.

The men’s stares have aroused me again. Is that normal?

Who interrupts a narrative for a train-chikan retribution? Me, that’s who.