Arthur's Log vol 1.0

Star date: unknown
Time: Feels like 11:32 AM
Mood: Bored


My name is Arthur Dent. A short while ago I was an unremarkable man living in an unremarkable house on an unremarkable street in unremarkable Islington, in England, on Earth. I am still an unremarkable man. Everything else has gone all to hell. I have decided to write this log to keep myself from going absolutely potty. Today I though I would start with a list of the things I miss about earth*.

1.My Bed. Everything on this ship is strange and alien. What I wouldn’t give for 5 minutes in my bed. Here, everything is sterile, modern and strange. All the furniture looks like something out of Andy Warhol’s imagination. It’s sleek and shiny and cool. I am not cool. I am tired of being surrounded by cool. For one night I would like to sleep in a tarnished brass framed bed, a squeaky one just like the one I use to have, with an ugly floral bedspread and an assortment of unmatched pillowcases stuffed with old and slightly leaky feather pillows. I guess what it comes down to is that I miss being surrounded by old things, by things that had a history that I could understand.

2. Stupid People. Oh how I miss being surrounded by people slower than I am. Here, everyone is always giving me that look, a look that says, “Oh, Arthur! How is it that you’ve managed to keep yourself alive without accidentally choking to death on a pretzel for all these years?”. What I wouldn’t give to have a conversation with that dimwitted pimply-faced grocery clerk at the Tesco. He use to aggravate the snot out of me, but I never appreciated how comforting it was to know I was smarter than at least one person I knew. Here, even the doors seem to understand what’s going on better than I do. I always have to try so hard just to keep up. I never realized how exhausting thinking all the time would be.

3. Tea. Sometimes when I think about this one too often, I start sobbing, and have to put my towel over my head just to keep from shattering into a million little pieces. Saying that I miss tea is the same thing as saying that I miss home. Tea is home. Tea is England. When I just think of that lovely amber liquid, the beautiful plumes of white in the cup that swirl together when you add the milk, the perfect stack of ginger biscuits sitting happily on the edge of the saucer, it all just becomes too much.

Wow, I really do miss tea. God, I miss tea. That’s it… I’m going to try and see if that stupid Nutri-whats-it can produce anything that doesn’t taste like diluted pond scum.

*. I’m not going to list things like my mother because I am not yet capable of processing any meaningful loss.

Arthur