The Martian

After spending the morning in classes, and the afternoon speeding across Washington State, rocking out to music playing so loud I’m sure I will regret it in thirty years, and flipping the bird to whomever may dare cut in front of me in the left hand lane that is rightfully mine and mine alone because I know for a fact I have the longest drive for the day. Finally, after stopping by to dote upon my baby niece, and watching a few episodes of Criminal Minds with my dad, I lay in bed after what seemed to be the longest day known to man. I inhale, deeply, so deeply I am sure that the air has seemingly gone through my lungs, filled my entire body and exited my toes, creating a empty pit. I feel relief. But nothing lasts forever and soon I feel a lump in my throat grow so large, pooling with anxiety and overwhelming me so much so I fear I will choke to death. I realize that for the first time in weeks I can finally breathe yet this frightens me more than anything. How am I to survive when my Haven is on the opposite side of the state?

I thought fear, anxiety and overwhelm were a thing of the past. Something only unexperienced freshman felt. Their doe eyes and thin skins couldn’t take the hunters on stage that search for the weak and call them out, stopping mid lecture to slaughter them in front of hundreds of other deer. Although, it seems as if my scars from near death experiences prove to be no match for the dreaded Mart. I always advocate to call professors by their true title “Doctor”, however this is a special case. You see, good ole Marty is not human. It tries to hide it’s soulless eyes and merciless face to it’s unsuspecting prey. It even had me fooled at first but the monster’s true self leaked out into the world through it’s serpent-esc voice, crocodile teeth and snapping turtle aggression. No man can escape it’s arena unscathed.

I fear that I too will fall victim to this vial creature. A monster with no empathy, a true murderer but it’s victims’ flesh is not killed. No, it destroys their humanity, their drive, their willingness to fight. It takes these deer and turns them into walking carcasses spitting out dates and amendments until it feels satisfied that it has broken every soul that dares to take History 104: the class for the doomed soul.

No solution is in sight. The wise ones got out early and fled for their lives but I fear I am too late to drop a class without having to take the L. I suppose I will just have to continue slaving over essays that receive “decent” remarks. It told me I am a sufficient writer. The real question though is why on earth does it care about my syntax and word choice when I am writing a paper on the oppression of Native Americans? I think the answer lies in the question.

Marty is not from Earth.

Think about It. Previously established, it is not human nor empathizes with humans. Most importantly, Mart is short for Martian. Seriously. You can’t make this shit up.

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