There went my father, he went up into the clouds, in a little airplane towards the sea, just like that, he is gone. The propeller circling so sinister because everything is just circling, but here on the ground we have to pretend like it’s not. The calendar in bold, straight, lines. The computer cubed. I dream of fluid, circular, revolving worlds, where I can fly too.

I can picture my father bored already. He is sitting next to the pilot, watching the Earth like Google Maps, yawning and checking the time to see if he can fall asleep yet. I’ve begged him to take me with him.

“It’s not fun,” he says.

But he’s an engineer, so no wonder. Lines, triangles, squares, blah, blah, blah, I hate him. Sometimes. No, I shouldn’t say that. He’s a good man. And he wants the best for me. That’s why I’ve been mildly hesitant about going into pornography. It’s what I aspire to do though, truly. They say in school to chose a career path that would be rewarding and make use of your individual talents. I’m sure I would be good at it. Cameras don’t bother me, and I’m very open-minded. I’m flexible, and I don’t judge people based on appearances.

I think everybody has a soft spot and everybody has a breaking point and everybody wants to make connections with other people, whether it’s a pat on the back or a deeply philosophical conversation or a penis going into your mouth-hole. There’s always something we can do to make each other feel like we’re not a finite civilization, totally alone in the universe, (which we most likely, probably definitely, are). That’s why I think being in pornography would be beautiful!

Death is a sure thing, the surest thing we know. It doesn’t scare me anymore because I had phase where all I did was take LSD and watch snuff films. And what I learned from it is, say if my father’s little airplane randomly breaks down and plummets to the ground, viciously spiraling out of control until it crashes, #disaster. It doesn’t matter if he goes to heaven or hell, or if he becomes a ghost, or anything like that. The only thing that matters, really, is that I have the knowledge of his existence—the unfortunate memory—and perceptually, that is sad.

I begged him to take me with him.

He says, “You’re too young, you have to go to school!”

And what—become a doctor? A lawyer? An architect? An adult? A title!

What did you spend your life achieving? My father, an evil engineer building African slave ships and super computers. Oh, despite how corrupt and futile you really are, I still love you. I haven’t the slightest idea what that word really means—it’s more or less just a form of habit—but you get the gist of it, I am extending my acknowledgement of you towards you, and that, I believe, is the very best I can do, the very best that anyone can do.
At least with my life I’m going to be having fun.

Fluid, circular, revolving. Right below my landing strip.