My crown dutifully showered in butter, I was in line for Evangelical Reality Tester, a ride I’d heard arrived pre-built from space. As if one day someone woke up and found it sitting there in the field with its giant metal arms outstretched. Hard to believe. As it were, I’d just been dunked in a large vat of popcorn—hence the butter shower—a very healthy dunking, I was ready to rock whatever preconceptions I had in the way of reality completely off. Hell, I was ready to dunked again, if need be, in the vat or brass-bucket of starlight I’d always imagined the moon to be swimming in. What I mean to say is this: for a while I waited in line, wishing I were the moon. I wished I were cured of fear. I wished I were the branch my mother dragged across my body in the river, curing me of fear.