Tomboy in space

Don't bring a spoon to a knife fight and don't lug your ridiculousness to meet the immensity. Keep it simple, stupid. News alerts and ruminating about your mother eats up oxygen and will ruin your ride. No stress eating up there either. Crumbs float, stick in the eyes and go up the nose, clog the air vents, and contaminate the system. It’s why we only eat corn tortillas when out of orbit.

Stop fetishizing your own discomfort. Folding umbrella, makeup kit, productivity apps, reputation, weed—they all go into the bin. Shed your calloused, pocked skin. Puke up every grievance. Wash slowly and thoroughly, every fold, every part, then annoit yourself. Bind your chest, don the white space overalls, root into the insulated booties. Salute the mirror then wrap yourself in a bear hug. Feel possible, exfoliated, stoic. Let your last fears incinerate during liftoff. Instead allow the protocols to accompany you, to steady you. Zero gravity and a sunrise every 90 minutes await.