The first thing you learned about space upon setting out is that it’s perpetually mind-numbing. You’re well-accustomed to boredom; in fact, standing and occupying yourself with your thoughts is basically your forte. Despite your talent, however, you’re beginning to tear yourself apart. You didn’t exactly have time to grab a full library, and you’re not familiar with your father’s password for the quantum-link. You sigh, staring at the ceiling that you’re oh-so-intimately familiar with. Closing your eyes, you roll right out of bed onto the cool soft floor of your ship. Groggily, you grab your glasses off your nightstand and wander down the stairs to the living room/kitchen.
Your parents always proclaimed you to be too good for prefab food; Neptune has a few orbital gardens, and you of course had abundant access to them. Looking back, you find it to be a total waste, perpetuated by the desire to have what was once possible. In your eyes, prefabricated fruits and vegetables serviceably emulate the taste of "the real deal," and they cost literal orders of magnitude more to produce, not to mention growing in weeks instead of minutes. You toss an apple and a banana in the blender with a protein tablet, and place the lid on. It magnetically locks, because of course it does, and shreds its contents in seconds. That is one thing you'll cede: the texture is far softer and more fragile than any fruit should be. With a sigh, you grab your standard flask and pour the smoothie inside.
...You miss solid food.
There's very little you can do to keep yourself occupied; you'd not had the foresight to prepare resources, your little... permanent expedition being a spur-of-the-moment decision, but you do have a few options:
These six options comprise pretty much the entirety of every day you've gone through for the past quarter or so. You're pulling your hair out over the thought of doing this, well, forever... but, well, you know that's not exactly going to be an option for too much longer.