The ambitious project, the first full-duration simulated flight to Mars, aims to test one of the biggest unknowns of an eventual manned mission to Mars: the psychological and physical toll on humans.
The idea is to exactly reproduce the timescale of a Mars mission — 250 days for the trip to Mars, 30 days on the surface and 240 days for the return journey, totalling 520 days, cut off from the world in a mock spaceship.
It will be interesting to see how this will pan out. Will a computer kill them all? Will a demon from another dimension find its way onboard and kill them all? Will they create robots that look like humans and who then go on to enslave the race that made them? Will they make it back before they run out of air?? Will Sam Rockwell make it back to Earth alive??!?! The suspense is already killing me. (via reddit)
Sounds interesting! (and kinda hot.)
"Oh I haven’t had anything solid to eat in weeks. What I wouldn’t give for somthing hard in my mouth right now". Who knew space could be so dirty?
Finding work is hard. I always make a great impression, I dress well, put my best shoes on, firm handshake, immaculate resume. I do everything right, but still, no one is hiring. It’s tough out there.
But maybe I’m just being too passive, “Oh you don’t want to hire me? Even though I’ve been to 3 perfect interviews with you that were all a huge waste of time? Okay, that’s cool, bye.”
Maybe I should take a different approach, one where I demand a job. “YOU, sir, WILL give me a job. I am clearly overqualified for this position and if you don’t give it to me I will kill you.
And the little man will run from behind his little desk and out the door screaming. “Hah!” I exclaim as I pull out a bow and a quiver of arrows. At the sight of this neighboring bosses begin to flee as well. I pull the bow back and shoot at all of them, pinning them to trees and vehicles, vehicles they can afford to pay insurance for because they have jobs. I have to ride my bike everywhere.
So I pedal my bike over to my prey, pull out a sabre, hold it to their necks, and say “Give me a job! Above minimum wage!!” and they all give me jobs, far above minimum wage, and I work hard and pay my insurance. That’s what I’ll do.
“In my opinon, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you, the right person will still think the sun shines out your ass. That’s the kind of person that’s worth sticking with.”—
To tell you the truth suicide doesn’t tempt me much. Of course I have thought about it over the years; and if I were to resort to it, here’s how I’d go about it: I’d hold a grenade right up against my heart and go out in a bright burst of joy. A little round grenade whose pin I’d delicately pluck out before I released the catch, smiling at the little metallic noise of the spring, the last sound I’d hear, aside from the heartbeat in my ears. And then at last, happiness, or in any case peace, as the shreds of my flesh slowly dripped off the walls.
Let the cleaning women scrub them off, that’s what they’re paid for, the poor girls. But as I said, suicide doesn’t tempt me.