by Torrance Holland
Here in the beautiful Andromeda Galaxy, there is something for everybody. Our beautiful and unusual spiral dust lane coasts across the galaxy, and a supermassive black hole attracts visitors from all over! With a constant influx of new and exciting distractions, how could one ever get bored? Yet all my fellow planetary bodies are obsessed with trying to leave their mark on the galaxy by spinning off tiny replications of themselves. I just don’t get it, how they coo over their little copies, as though it’s such an accomplishment.
It seems like every celestial body around me is bent on living the domestic dream. They want to leave a legacy greater than themselves, they say. As though they need to multiply themselves to do that. Did they know how incredible they were already before they gave up their figures for planethood? To be like everybody else? I always thought that if I wanted to fawn over a bunch of specs of demanding and temperamental dust after losing my figure to some protoplanetary disk, I could give myself another few centuries to plan, and do it on my own terms, without sacrificing the dreams I had for myself. As if after centuries of growth and effort I’m supposed to just fade away into obscurity for someone else’s benefit. It’s not like we’re our neighbors in the Milky Way, with their wet and squishy, parasitic life forms destroying everything with their zeal for reproducing. We’re better than that.
But it’s been a long time since I thought about multiplying on my own terms. I was an especially bright, hot star in my galaxy but now, my accretion disk is all but gone and so is the likelihood of me flinging any little planetary bodies that resemble me into outer space. If I did want to jump on that bandwagon, I guess I could still lure an unsupervised comet into my orbit. No, never mind. Why would I want to procreate, losing the mass of girth I spent millennia acquiring? When instead I could increase my orbit and continue influencing the galaxy as a powerful and independent celestial body. I’m certainly only thinking about it because everyone else is doing it, reminding me all the time. If I don’t give into peer pressure and give my mass to some ungrateful planetoid pests, I could still outgrow my own gravity and consume galaxies.
No, I’m happy with my decision. I mean, who am I kidding? I’m not the domestic type anyway, I never have been like that. When I was young and my accretion disk was bodacious and swirling around my stellar curves, I wasn’t worrying myself about planethood. I was more interested in wielding power and influence, not wasting it by spinning out little ones and giving up my own potential while my light gradually went out and I faded into a dim and lifeless rock with an empty nest! If I did what everyone else was doing, I would miss out on the chance to go supernova, generate heavier elements and seed a new generation of planets and stars, and make a real impact on the galaxy.
It’s frustrating having all my friends gawk and fawn over their bright little budding planets, while I just don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Am I missing something?! Whatever happened to the dream of becoming a black hole, mastering space and time in a terrible devouring force? I don’t need a whirling accretion disk to be super attractive. There are plenty of happy, successful stars without planets, and I’m proof.
Torrance Holland is a queer autistic author who left a stable job in STEM to be creative full time. When she isn’t writing she spends her time drinking coffee, playing with dogs and listening to sad girls with guitars.