The worst part about dying in space is that nobody would hear you scream. Well, no. The worst part is that your bodily fluids would be gurgling and sploogling out through the crevices of your spacesuit and nobody would be able to hear those nasty, nasty noises. If I can’t make somebody barf while I die, there isn’t much reason to even do it. I mean, really.
Although it is more fun to imagine it so, I suspect that the body wouldn’t decompose to the skeleton simply by being exposed to the cold airless void of space. To achieve the same effect in real life, then, you’d have to either pack a skeleton into a spacesuit and then set it adrift or fill your buddy’s space suit with a load of really hungry rats.
Pretty messed up.
I was writing this poem on the back of a survey for my history class, but I was interrupted by having to turn it in. Why don’t you finish the poem (I mean, if you can) and then leave it in the comments? Wouldn’t that be absolutely delightful? Yes, so get to it (seriously though, no shame if you can’t rhyme with numbered).
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