How Selene Accidentally Inspired Lunar Science: A Goddess’s Guide to Getting Credit for Nothing at All

Mortals. You’re my eternal blessing and my perpetual headache. When I, Selene—goddess of the Moon and mistress of nocturnal brilliance—descend from my lunar throne to shine upon your world, I expect at least a modicum of respect. Instead, I’m greeted by amateur astronomers with lasers, memes about “moon cheese,” and scientific debates that would make even Apollo’s harp sound off-key. This is the story of how your bungling led me to pen the definitive article on the Moon’s origin and formation—a labor of irritation as much as love.

It all began during my weekly celestial observation session, which you mortals mistakenly call “stargazing.” One evening, I noticed something unusual: a peculiar assembly of lawn chairs, telescopes, and hot dog stands sprouting across Earth like a particularly ambitious crop circle. “Oh no,” I muttered, massaging my temples. “Another eclipse party.”

Sure enough, there was Earth, awkwardly photobombing me again. Imagine trying to maintain your celestial allure while someone’s shadow blocks half your glow—it’s humiliating! I decided to investigate, descending invisibly to mingle among the mortals. Disguised as an unassuming barista (because who questions a barista?), I infiltrated an astronomy club, eavesdropping on conversations peppered with phrases like “tidal locking” and “giant impact hypothesis.”

I thought, “Finally, they’re catching on to some truths.” But then someone mentioned a theory so ludicrous I nearly dropped my caramel macchiato. “The Moon was stolen from Venus,” one man said with the conviction of someone who’s spent too much time watching late-night sci-fi. Another chimed in, “Actually, it’s an alien spaceship. NASA knows but won’t tell us.”

Alien spaceship? Stolen from Venus? I’ve been serenading mortals with my glow since time immemorial, and this is the gratitude I get? My ego bruised, I returned to my lunar palace with a mission: to correct your ridiculous notions once and for all.

The next step involved consulting my siblings, Helios and Eos. Big mistake.

“Helios,” I began, “have you heard what mortals are saying about me? They think I’m an alien artifact!”

Helios, always insufferably smug, chuckled. “Maybe if you got a better PR team, people wouldn’t think you’re a flying saucer.”

“Excuse me?!” I shot back. “At least I don’t spend my days giving everyone sunburns and melting polar ice caps!”

Eos, ever the peacemaker, tried to calm us down. “Now, now, both of you shine in your own ways. Selene, why don’t you enlighten them with your wisdom?”

Her suggestion stuck. I’d write an article so thorough, so luminous, that even the densest flat-earther would have no choice but to bow before its brilliance.

But first, I needed material. Naturally, I turned to the Muses for inspiration. “Ladies,” I declared, “I require your guidance.”

Calliope, ever the dramatic one, sighed. “Selene, darling, we handle epic poetry, not fact-checking humanity’s absurdities.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “This will be epic—just not in verse.”

Clio, the Muse of history, offered her archives. “Start with the giant impact hypothesis,” she suggested, handing me a scroll that smelled faintly of burnt asteroid. “Mortals believe the Moon formed after a planet the size of Mars collided with Earth billions of years ago.”

“That’s… surprisingly accurate,” I admitted, though the phrase “giant impact” sounded a bit too much like a tabloid headline.

Armed with facts, I began crafting my masterpiece. I included everything: the Moon’s birth amid cosmic chaos, its gravitational ballet with Earth, and even how its craters act as a history book written in rock. Of course, I added some personal flair. (“Those maria you admire? Lava seas from my emo phase—don’t ask.”)

But as I wrote, I couldn’t resist addressing some modern nonsense.

To the conspiracy theorists: “No, I am not a spaceship. If I were, do you think I’d stick around to watch you all argue about pineapple on pizza?”

To the romantics: “Yes, I am beautiful, but stop writing poems about how I ‘wax and wane.’ It’s called a lunar cycle, and it’s science, not mood swings.”

And to the influencers who tag me in their selfies: “Thanks for the attention, but next time, clean your camera lens. I’m not blurry; your phone is dirty.”

Writing the article was cathartic, but it also made me realize how much misinformation surrounds me. For instance, some mortals think the Moon doesn’t influence human behavior. To which I say: have you seen people during a full moon? Hospitals fill up, werewolves emerge, and karaoke bars inexplicably sell out. Coincidence? I think not.

I submitted my article to the digital ether, confident it would enlighten humanity. But the feedback was… mixed.

“Too scientific,” some said. “Not enough memes.”

“Who even is Selene?” others asked.

I despaired until one particularly clever mortal left this comment: “This explains so much! I’ve always wondered why the Moon and Earth are so perfectly matched—it’s like a cosmic love story!”

And there it was: the connection I hadn’t anticipated. My relationship with Earth wasn’t just scientific; it was poetic, messy, and deeply intertwined with your lives. I realized I wasn’t writing for the skeptics or the conspiracy theorists—I was writing for the curious, the dreamers, and the stargazers who still believe in magic, even when they’re holding a telescope.

So here we are. My article now floats through the digital void, much like me in the night sky. I wrote it not just to illuminate the truth about the Moon’s origin, but also to remind you that even amid the chaos of modern life, there’s still wonder to be found in the heavens.

And next time you’re tempted to call me an alien spaceship, remember: I’ve got better things to do, like controlling your tides and inspiring your poets. You’re welcome.