Sol 14
Hi Darcy,
Sorry I didn’t write last week, what with almost dying and all.
Not that you’ll be able to pick this up until the next Ares mission, anyway. But I said I’d write, so here I am. Writing.
I hate to say it, princess, but you were wrong about botany. Not only is it the greatest science of all, but it’s going to save my life. That, and my own shit.
Let me explain.
No. It is too much. Let me sum up.
And before you start pelting me with pillows for the Princess Bride quotation…
To survive until Ares 4, or have a shot at it, anyway, I’m going to need more food. And to make more food, I’m - you guessed it! - going to farm. Farm what, you ask? Isn’t Mars supposed to lifeless and inhospitable to plant life?
Well, yes. It is. But I’ve got a way to enrich the soil so that I can plant stuff, and it should grow. I hope. And the answer to that is shit.
My shit, to be exact. You see, the toilets on Mars bundle everything up into these little foil packages which usually wind up in a biohazard box outside the Hab. Right now, though, those packages are opened, combined with my own, more recent shit, and some water. And bacteria. Which are going to fertilise the dead Martian soil and keep yours truly alive. Sure, it stinks, but hey, that’s science!
After all, I’ve got a wedding to get back to.
So, long story short; botany is the best, and I am the best botanist on Mars. So there! Thor can take his quantum physics and shove it where the Bifrost does not shine. Does the Bifrost shine? Or does it just reflect light? You’ll have to ask him for me.
You know, I think you’d like it here on Mars. Lotsa sand, not too humid. Kinda like Puente Antigo. Without the Asgardians and metal monstrosities. Without any pet stores, though. That’s a definite disadvantage.
I’ve been thinking about what people are saying on Earth. Remember when you said that I was the guy who’d be late for his own funeral? I’m guessing that’ll be true. They’ve probably declared me dead by now.
Just so you know - it wasn’t the Commander’s fault. Or Martinez’s. Or anyone else’s. It was just one of those things. One of those shitty fucking things.
But I’m going to be on this planet long enough to get residency, I figure, so now you too can claim to be dating an extraterrestrial. You’re even gonna marry one! Tell Jane she can bite you, next time she needles you about it.
Commander Lewis’ latest disco playlist just stopped playing, so I’m gonna go and restart it. I’m gonna know every single ABBA song by heart by the time I get off this planet.
Love ya, princess,
Mark.