She was really, really angry about this.
Even taking the long view, and the possibilities that it represented, it still made her absolutely livid that she had to be an astronaut.
An astronaut! What the fuck.
She had made her case, had given an impassioned--bordering on the obscene at times--speech to the Commission as to why she had neither the disposition nor, indeed, the desire to have anything whatsoever to do with going to outer space. The Commission listened to her, their dour, doughy faces inscrutable in the haze of cigarette smoke that permeated the room. After less than a quarter hour of deliberation they called her back into the room and said that she would be an astronaut whether she liked it or not.
Then the official Secretary of the Forms took a (rather unnecessarily large and dramatic, she thought at the time) rubber stamp and hammered it down on her Request for Change of Vocation with a significant (and again, overly dramatic) thud.
DENIED.
So she was an astronaut. A goddamned astronaut. Whenever she thought of it her brain would just pulsate read and she would go into a paroxysm of frustrated rage and the only sound she could make was something that sounded like "RRRRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGH." It was seriously undermining her life.
Her friends told her that she really needed to calm down. Take the long view. It wasn't so bad, really. A lot of people started as astronauts and went on to do really well. Yes, of course, she would say. And she would sit quietly for a moment and sip her drink.
AN ASTRONAUT! RRRRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGH.
Her friends stopped inviting her over. She began to feel lonely as well as angry. This had something of a mellowing effect on her, but ultimately she sunk into a depression that only grew worse when she began to receive pamphlets that shouted at her in full color all-capitals: SO YOU'RE GOING TO BE AN ASTRONAUT! SPACE: IS IT RIGHT FOR YOU? and WHAT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO COME BACK (WINK WINK).
This last sent her into such a deep spiral of misery that she went into a close
Even taking the long view, and the possibilities that it represented, it still made her absolutely livid that she had to be an astronaut.
An astronaut! What the fuck.
She had made her case, had given an impassioned--bordering on the obscene at times--speech to the Commission as to why she had neither the disposition nor, indeed, the desire to have anything whatsoever to do with going to outer space. The Commission listened to her, their dour, doughy faces inscrutable in the haze of cigarette smoke that permeated the room. After less than a quarter hour of deliberation they called her back into the room and said that she would be an astronaut whether she liked it or not.
Then the official Secretary of the Forms took a (rather unnecessarily large and dramatic, she thought at the time) rubber stamp and hammered it down on her Request for Change of Vocation with a significant (and again, overly dramatic) thud.
DENIED.
So she was an astronaut. A goddamned astronaut. Whenever she thought of it her brain would just pulsate read and she would go into a paroxysm of frustrated rage and the only sound she could make was something that sounded like "RRRRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGH." It was seriously undermining her life.
Her friends told her that she really needed to calm down. Take the long view. It wasn't so bad, really. A lot of people started as astronauts and went on to do really well. Yes, of course, she would say. And she would sit quietly for a moment and sip her drink.
AN ASTRONAUT! RRRRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGH.
Her friends stopped inviting her over. She began to feel lonely as well as angry. This had something of a mellowing effect on her, but ultimately she sunk into a depression that only grew worse when she began to receive pamphlets that shouted at her in full color all-capitals: SO YOU'RE GOING TO BE AN ASTRONAUT! SPACE: IS IT RIGHT FOR YOU? and WHAT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO COME BACK (WINK WINK).
This last sent her into such a deep spiral of misery that she went into a close
