I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious when I opened my eyes, but my first sight was a dozen wobbly green faces with three eyes and one eyebrow each, blinking down at me like curious noodles.
“Welcome back!” they cheered in a chorus. “How was your trip to Earth?”
“Trip?” I groaned, trying to sit up. “Is my tentacle still attached?”
A round of laughter exploded from the crowd.
“Relax, Jayden 121710,” said Commander Splotz, patting my back with his gelatinous hand. “You're in one piece—more or less.”
And so began the most humiliating, hilarious, and enlightening debriefing of my life.
---
It all started three Earth weeks ago when I was chosen for the Interplanetary Culture Observation Program. I, Jayden 121710, was considered one of the brightest minds on Planet Zarnok. Top of my class, fluent in seven plasma-based dialects, and the reigning champion of “Guess That Nebula!” I was the perfect candidate to infiltrate Earth and study its curious life forms.
The mission? Simple. Land. Blend. Observe. Report. No abductions, no probing, no vaporizing. Just good old-fashioned science.
I got assigned a human disguise—brown hair, square chin, terrible knees—and was beamed into a place called “New Jersey.” Which, in Earthling tongue, I believe means land of traffic cones and potholes.
My first mistake was trying to introduce myself to a group of Earthlings by saying, “Greetings! I bring the gift of intergalactic friendship and unlimited slime!”
They screamed. One threw a shoe. Another recorded me on their device while shouting, “This better go viral!”
That night, my face was on every screen in town under the caption “Weird guy on TikTok thinks he’s an alien!” I had accidentally become an influencer.
“Jayden 121710,” I muttered to myself, “you've already violated four galactic blending protocols.”
Still, I pressed on.
---
Day 2. I tried to blend in by mimicking human routines.
I went to a café. I ordered something called a “triple-shot caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra foam, no whip.”
It was… horrifying.
I politely asked the barista, “Is this the flavor of melted sadness with a hint of burned grass?”
He nodded solemnly. “That’s how we like it.”
I took three sips and started seeing colors that weren’t on the Zarnok spectrum. I may or may not have proposed to a fire hydrant.
Day 4. I attended a thing called a “job interview.” Earthlings go through this strange ritual where they sit in chairs, sweat nervously, and pretend they love working overtime.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” they asked.
“Evacuating your solar system before your star collapses,” I answered honestly.
They offered me the position of “office intern.”
Day 7. I finally tried something humans love deeply: pizza.
I took one bite and tears streamed down my face. “What is this divine creation?” I asked the vendor.
He shrugged. “Cheese, sauce, and self-hatred.”
I wrote in my report: Earthlings survive solely on caffeine, sarcasm, and grease.
---
But it wasn’t all confusion and stomachaches.
I met a small human creature named Milo—age 6, missing two teeth, armed with crayons and questions.
“Are you really an alien?” he asked, squinting.
I hesitated. “What do you think?”
“You’re weird, and you talk funny,” he said, poking my fake nose. “So yeah, probably.”
We became friends. He showed me cartoons, introduced me to peanut butter, and taught me the ancient Earth art of “belly flopping into a pool.”
I taught him how to say “Zarnokian slugs are squishy” in three clicks and a whistle.
When I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said, “Happy. And maybe a dinosaur.”
He reminded me of what we on Zarnok often forget—that joy isn’t found in perfection, but in the messiness of life.
---
Day 12. Disaster struck.
I accidentally pressed the wrong button on my disguise wristwatch and turned half-invisible during a school PTA meeting.
The parents panicked. One fainted into the cookie table. Someone tried to trap me under a recycling bin.
“IT’S THE END TIMES!” an Earthling yelled.
I barely escaped.
That night, I messaged Command:
> Mission compromised. Cultural confusion at maximum. Moral integrity intact. Request return beam. Also, send antacid. Earth food burns.
---
And now I was back. Still dizzy, still a little sticky from the pizza-sauce incident, and surrounded by my fellow Zarnokians.
“So tell us,” Commander Splotz said. “What have you learned about Earth?”
I stood up, cleared my throat, and looked around the room.
“I learned that humans are absurd,” I began. “They spend money they don’t have, eat things they can’t pronounce, and fear things they don’t understand. They shout at boxes, cry at dogs in sweaters, and think pineapple on pizza is a war crime.”
The room gasped.
“But…” I continued, smiling, “they also laugh even when they’re scared. They help strangers. They love fiercely. They dream wildly. They teach children with crayons, and make music out of pain. They’re a mess—but a beautiful one.”
Splotz nodded. “Would you go back?”
I winced. “Not until my intestines recover from something called spicy ramen. But yes—one day, I’d go back. Maybe next time… as a tourist.”
---
Moral Lesson:
Sometimes, understanding others means stepping into their shoes—even if their shoes are weird, smell like cheese, and occasionally catch fire. Every culture, no matter how strange, has something to teach us. And sometimes, the biggest lessons come wrapped in the smallest, stickiest packages—like peanut butter sandwiches and a child’s laughter.
And always—ALWAYS—ask what’s in the food before you eat it.
