Rider's Block

Note: This is my response to my daughter's high school essay pleading with me to take care of my health by eating fruit.

Dear Daughter,

Fruit is sickening. I don't want it near me. Keep it away. I'd rather shove fistfuls of Cheetos in my mouth and munch on artificial ingredients whipped up in a Frito-Lay lab than put a single finger on a hairy kiwi. I know you want me to be there for important events like graduations and your wedding. But I've made it this far in life avoiding fruit, and I'll be perfectly fine. You know why? Science!

The way I see it, I'm mostly chemical additives by now. I've ingested so many preservatives, I'm practically going to live forever. My insides are coated with such a slick chemical glaze that any melanoma cell seeking purchase would explode on contact. To introduce something like an apple slice into my superior body's ecosystem now would be to disturb its fragile balance. I thought you loved me. Why would you want to kill me with fruit?

But let's assume for a moment that the orange slice I ate in a moment of stupidity in 2009 has caused an irreversible chain reaction--perhaps my spinal column is about to collapse like a Jenga tower. I'm still not worried. I only have to make it another five years from now until I'm able to upload my consciousness into a brand new synthetic body. It's going to be awesome. Imagine you dropping me off at Rush-Copley Medical Center in the morning, and when you pick me up before lunch it'll be my head on Chris Hemsworth's body. Imagine how happy mom will be! We'll all celebrate at Taco Bell!

So you see, I have faith in science, Boo. There's no getting rid of me. Sure, I might attend your wedding as a head in a jar filled with blue Powerade, and I won't walk you down the aisle so much as maneuver my floating platform alongside you with controls worked by my tongue, but I'll be there. And I'll be there for your kids' weddings. And so on. Because by not eating fruit I'm gonna live forever. In closing, screw tomatoes.

Love forever,
Dad