CH. 09 «I Hate Martian Girls»



I’ve often found myself being asked “why did you ever move to Mars?” and felt it hard to answer so simply. There were many motivating factors for me to come here. I could tell you it’s because I wanted to be a successful artist or pull the actor card and say I was here to claim the stardom I deserved. Another excuse would involve using the cannabis agenda, having arrived on the heels of the Martian Green Rush. But I must admit the greatest fuel to my dreams has been Martian girls. For a century now, 2D and 3D movis have been trying to capture the beauty and mystique of the Femme Mars; particularly girls from Amazonia. Long blonde hair, bare tan bodies and enough baggage to weigh down a star-cruiser.

They are a puzzling creature to pursue. Even more fascinating is studying them long enough to find they’re exactly how they seem in the old movies: two-dimensional. One of the most disappointing discoveries has been to find out that most of the ad-worthy, model-ready photogenic chicks lining the boardwalks and crowding the outdoor malls really don’t have much more going on than what you see. Dealing with emotions and personalities that never evolved past a giddy school girl level, the ignorance to the value of money, and a refusal to grasp the realness of any situation (even their own life) are simply hazards of the occupation of courting Martian women. For starters: good luck getting them them to put away their comms for longer than 2 minutes.

Now, if it were just as easy as getting over a few childish flaws in a girl and looking to the good, this would be a much more concise transmission. This is where it gets complicated… because there’s very little good to start with; don’t strain yourself searching for it. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from or what you have to offer to Martian Girls, they only want guys with three things; credits, treads and an ID that states you’re old enough to purchase alcohol and cannabis.

I can’t lie, I thought the women here would be artistic, or even just cultured, since the atmosphere lends to such creative industries. I merely assumed that something about this place drove everyones’ will to create. I was sorely mistaken. I also thought the women here loved artists, loved watching a man turn raw materials into a brilliant work or plucking the sweetness from the air to play her a song. Two Strikes. Finally, I thought they would dig my old world charm; this handsome young man from Sol’s capital with his ideas and languages, untainted by the city or the people of Mars, powered by an artist’s burning soul; doesn’t quite cut it on this planet.

No, girls just want someone to be their chauffeur, their personal accountant, and provide them with entertainment and an eventful evening when too lazy or unimaginative to concoct one themselves. All they care about is not having to work or think for themselves while they get to reap the fruit of another’s labors—and look fabulous doing it. They want the world served to them on a titanium platter, as it surely has been since birth. It didn’t help things their parents gave in each time they begged for an aircar, or a new nose or pair of breasts implants. Amazonian girls were given everything they ever wanted without ever learning the value of hard work. In short: most are egotistical, egocentric and tend to have a serious Electra Complex.

Like anyone who sings this tune, though, I just had to give it a shot. Who in their right mind would turn down the opportunity to date an Amazonian girl? So what if it didn’t work out, I’m not gonna let that get me down. I didn’t come to Mars just because I was in love with a blonde heiress; if that were the case I would have packed up and went home the moment I got dumped here.

Its all about the art and the culture, and expanding both within myself, and I’ll just as soon lay down and die as let my dreams do the same. I bet there’s a lady or two somewhere on this planet with redeeming factors, and I refuse to believe a rotten bunch of apples contains no keepers. Call it stubborn, but I’m sure there’s someone out there who paints and sings and sees the universe like I do, who wants to see the worlds I see. I haven’t given up hope that she’s out there, or reading this now. I’ve heard some people claim you have more than one starmate out there, maybe more than one on some planets

I’m fairly certain I simply landed on the wrong half of Mars.

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PREV: CH. 08 «The Martian Motorist»

PREV: CH. 08 «The Martian Motorist»

NEXT: CH. 10 «The Second Belt War»

NEXT: CH. 10 «The Second Belt War»


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