I’m just writing this so all of you know that, even though I won’t be working at NASA this summer, I was totally going to. Just to be clear, I was chosen from a very large applicant pool of hot geniuses because I am the best. And also, I am handsome. I have the jawline of mature hyena. But anyway, the ole ‘Rona snatched away my chance to work at NASA. And, because God hates me, my backup internships at Apple, McKinsey, and the Department of Defense were also all cancelled.
Oh—and my GPA is a 5.2. Just wanted you to know that, along with anybody else I have ever met or seen or who reads this godforsaken paper.
I’ve spent the past few weeks mourning all the typical internship experiences that I’ll never get to have. I won’t get to make crude puns about the Big Bang or name a dwarf planet after my very short mailman. I’ll never use the Hubble Space Telescope to take pictures of the massive wonders of the galaxy, like Nebula NGC 7293 and my dick. Worst of all? I can’t write in my Hinge bio that I am an expert in the ultimate fate of the universe, though I guess I could just join a frat and take a Buddhism class if I wanted to do that. I weep every time the realization strikes me: I’ll never fuck a wormhole.
The shitbrains over at NASA are really missing out on my talents. I’ll never get to explain to them how the Challenger explosion was a hoax perpetrated by Tulsi Gabbard. The moon won’t reveal her tender secrets to me, like what a hungry buffalo eats for breakfast. The real kicker is that I won’t get to meet the extraterrestrials I know are being hid in the NASA basement. I wanted to find one with tentacles for my new adult media venture. Oh, by the way, last night, I had a dream that I met one of NASA’s aliens. NASA, you know, where I was gonna work. Anyway, the weird part is, the alien told me that my countenance displeased him and that my brother was right when he called me a fatass Jesse Eisenberg.