How much would I pay to go to the moon? Not a damn cent. Let billionaires play space tourist while I’m over here trying to afford eggs. There’s nothing on the moon but rocks, loneliness, and the crushing silence of realizing you paid your life savings to sit in a glorified tin can with Wi-Fi worse than rural Ohio. I’m claustrophobic enough just getting stuck in traffic behind a school bus—imagine being trapped in a metal capsule for three days while someone named Chad brags about his crypto portfolio in zero gravity.

People say, “It’s the experience of a lifetime!” Yeah, so is food poisoning, but I’m not paying extra for that either. Being an introvert, you’d think I’d love the idea—no crowds, no small talk, no uninvited “Hey, big guy” handshakes—but I also like breathing air that hasn’t been recycled through seven strangers’ lungs. There’s a difference between solitude and confinement, and space doesn’t seem to get it.

I’ll take my version of “space” right here on Earth: a quiet porch, a half-charged phone, and the joy of ignoring humanity from a safe oxygen-rich distance. You all can have your moon rocks. I’ll settle for not dying in a glorified soda can 238,900 miles from the nearest pizza.