We’re supposed to believe the moon is real? The fucking moon?
She blinks. Oh dear.
“Well, yeah. It is.”
I may as well continue.
The moon? That one?
I point. It may not be helpful but it feels necessary. Y’know?
Look at it. How do you know it’s not just some special effect?
She doesn’t leave. She could, I’m not a crazy.
“Are you serious?”
I like pauses. Let’s have a pause.
“Ok. So the men who’ve been there are lying. And the men who sent them.”
I’d throw in a line about all men being liars but I’ve tried that before and failed. It was supposed to diffuse things and make me seem charming.
Do you know them?
So you don’t know who said shit?
“I don’t need to. If it wasn’t real, word would spread.”
So in this communication daisy-chain, the truth would have been passed on to land, ultimately, in your shell-like? Because you’re that fucking important?
I shouldn’t swear. I tried stopping for Lent but it felt too good during arguments about religion with my Dad. There’s nothing like choice swears in a clever-ass rant.
She perseveres. Maybe I’ve met her before.
“There’d be programmes about it.”
There are programmes about it.
I love throwing that one in. I know what’s coming too.
“On the Internet, I suppose?”
She says it like they all say it. Like the greatest ever tool for democratising information isn’t as trustworthy as media controlled by seven rich guys. Like the perfect place for truth is alongside Skating on Ice and Jimmy Saville’s Newsround, or whatever they’re called.
I sigh. And to make sure she hears, I type *sigh*.
Yes, the Internet. Along with Wikipedia and—
She cuts me off. Ok, so I knew I wasn’t going to be marrying her but to not finish an intelligent fucking discussion? WTAF?
I mean, why do they get lovey-dovey and talk about the fucking moon?