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There was a time when I wanted to be an astronaut

  • There was a time when I wanted to be an astronaut and travel to Mars. I had it all worked out--Air Force Academy, NASA, Mars. Then in grade 8 I took my first physics class.

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  • No one told me it was inappropriate to make a cyclotronic atom smasher in my back yard. I would go to Mars on my own meal ticket. My parents didn't know until they found

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  • evidence of my wonderful adventures buried in the flowergarden. My parents refuse to acknowledge my brilliance, though; they laugh at me when I say I've met martians

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  • at the 7-11. My parents always say, "you only see Martians in the store brand section. Everyone knows that!" that's when they laugh and spill their Seagram's and start fondling

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  • their namebrand "Aliens." Only the cool kids could afford Aliens and Seagram's. I turned away from insular teenage alcoholics who would someday realize

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  • brand-name tennis shoes were a sad remnant of a past age. Goddamned pretentious hipsters and their vintage gangsta rap. Chinese Trance-core, now THAT was dope music for dope folks.

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  • Thought the Crypt-Keeper as he read Spin Magazine.

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  • He tossed the rag aside, lit another spliff, and reclined on his bed thinking about all kinds of crazy stuff. An hour later, the Crypt-Keeper heard the garage door open. His mother

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  • came in and picked up the rag. "What on earth have you been doing with this rag? It's horrid!" Then the Crypt-Keeper sheepishly avoided eye contact, as the garage door closed.

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  • The garaged door closed. I dropped the rag. Our Crypt-Keeper grinned as he handed me his letter of resignation and a flier for his new cleaning business. Damn you, Crypt-Keeper.

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