Aliens and Dates

Prelude: Being reborn is awful. Who was the genius who invented this?

When you're a baby, people often say the best thing about it is that you have absolutely no idea what's happening around you. You're just there, being cared for, spoiled, cleaned, fed, and slowly learning what it means to be human.

But what about when you do know exactly what's going on? Not entirely, of course, but you know. You have memories from your past life, and you don't know how to feel about them. You don't understand what's happening, why you're suddenly tiny compared to the giant strangers who bathe you, feed you, and treat you like you're not capable of doing anything on your own.

I wasn't, and it took me a while to grasp that.

And, as a bonus courtesy of some god who must despise me, I can't talk about it to anyone. My brain thinks in fully formed words, but my body can't express them because I haven't learned how yet.

I felt enormous on the inside, yet minuscule on the outside—as if something inside me was constantly trying to break free, to escape, and run far away from the house I now lived in. But I didn't have the keys to the cage back then, so I let (let's use that word for now) the people—my new parents—take me wherever they wanted.

The feeling was, to put it mildly, suffocating. Understanding everything but being unable to question anything was the worst sensation I'd ever experienced in either of my lives.

However, that wasn't even the worst part of being reborn into a new universe. The real challenge was living in it. Over time, memories began to settle into my brain, and along with them came the traumas. Everything became as clear as purified water just before my sixteenth birthday, and I would have much preferred to remain in the dark.

Why did I still have memories? Why was I reborn? Why did I have to end up in a superhero universe again? Couldn't things just, I don't know, try to be normal for once?

I didn't want to be reborn here. I didn't even want to keep my memories because I'm sure that being a normal kid—not feeling like a traumatized adult trapped in someone else's body—would have made me a thousand times happier and allowed me to enjoy my days in completely different ways.

I didn't want to be reborn, but it happened. And now, I live fueled by a mix of rage and optimism. Weird, right? Yeah,maybe it's a little contradictory, but that's how I've been getting through my days for over twenty-nine years.

Some days, I wake up wanting to make the day as great as possible. On other days, I wish a meteor would just obliterate this godforsaken planet. And sometimes, I just want to sleep and forget that I'm alive.

It's not that strange. I've lived long enough to know that's just how the human mind works—constantly shifting. Or maybe it's my bipolar disorder acting up? I can't remember, and honestly, I don't feel like figuring it out right now.

Do you know what I feel like doing right now? Picking out my best dress, get ready, and make sure the date I set up through a dating app goes so well that the man wants to put a ring on my finger within a year.

If I wasn't going to have a successful life (I hate being unemployed), at least I could aim for a great relationship.

Too bad a certain Norse god, a purple alien with a messiah complex, and an army of ugly extraterrestrials weren't on my side.

Yeah, I'm fine. But who really is these days, anyway?

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