The date, irrelevant. The time, sunny and pleasant, late spring. The place, Berlin. Outskirts of Berlin, and by outskirts I mean the Autobahn from Hannover to Berlin. I am probably a couple hours away from East Berlin. The cool part of Berlin. For why would one go any place other than East. It’s where it’s at.

I’m riding in my grandpa’s Hymer. It’s a camper van, in case you need to be caught up with what we’re on about. My grandad was the one big on camping and going to France and Germany. Baguette enthusiast. My dad, he was more like a flying-to-paradise-beaches kinda guy. Me, I’m the homeless sort. Nomad, if you want. The non-polluting kind. I’ve got it all sorted out. This Hymer is my home, and I’ve affectionately dubbed it the Restitutionalizer, because it restitutes the Earth to its previous, better self. Also, because I’ve already applied the grafitti paint on the side before learning that the word should be Restitutioner.

I’m proud of it. The Restitutionalizer is what my grandpa would call the cat’s tits. See, I started by pulling out the gas engine, getting drunk, shouting at it for killing the planet, then selling it to some afficionados interested in restoring old camper vans. Then I took that money, added my savings, and got myself a nice Tesla engine with a Powerwall to boot, which I installed in – you guessed it – the boot. I fabricated an extendable solar panelled roof – for the famous Normandian sunshine – and four pliable helix turbines – for windy nights in the Hague. I also have a printer, a state-of-the-art one because that’s how I roll, where I can print pretty much everything except for food. Or coffee, holy shit that things’ expensive. But anyway yes, a cool device to print metal and plastic parts, clothes, gadgets, I mean what more can you want. Ups my recycling game, scores me points for that steady-state economics they kept peddling at school.

Circular economy baby, bring in that African plastic booyah. Grandpa paid to get it out, WE’RE paying to get it back in whaaaat? And they said Europeans are smart.

AND let me be crystal clear. I’m riding, not driving. I’m not even at the wheel right now, I’m gaming. The Restitutionalizer is self-driving, SAE level 4 (google it) or ‘Mind off” if you want. The Dutch and German law permits it on specially designated highway lanes, as long as cruising speed is 60 km/h. Which it is, cause I’m not in a rush.

As for me and my earthly body, I’m here to enjoy life. Not to take it away. I only eat lab-grown meat, mucho veggies, no dairy and no eggs. What I eat I shit and what I shit I plop right back onto mother earth. Plant a tree in for good measure.

So yea overall pretty good stuff. The snazzy European sun coupled with Dutch hurricanes are enough to power my car, my air pump and filters, my lights, my pod, my dock, my printer, my wifi and, most importantly, my beautiful assistant Baldr.

He started off as my school assistant. My folks bought it. Back then assistants came in a physical shape. I still remember the day I got to unpack him. He was round and white and plasticky and warm and perfect in every way. I took him with me everywhere. Baldr was with me in physical class and he was hooked up to my online classes. He watched me play sports and offered internet tips to improve my form. He designed personalized tests for me to get more of the school material in. He kept track of my whereabouts so my parents would not need to check in on me. He always had good advice, would give me routes, would do maths for me, read out books, play audiobooks and music. He’d pick out the best music for me. 

It was back when I was 13 and got my first love rejection, that Baldr stepped in and helped me through tough times. After that, during high-school and then uni, he’d step in with explaining words and passages from my textbooks. Whenever we’d go far away for holiday, Baldr would come with. With his nice little blue camera-eye, he’d study my brain activity and know what I wanted to say, before I even said it! Made it super easy to communicate with the locals. All the while my old man would be struggling with his old-school google translate and whatnot, on a phone! Imagine that. They all had banana bodies back then, the dads and the other 40- and 50-year olds. Hunched over tiny screens, smartphones in hand. Not me eh. Not us. We’re the new generation, baby. We pushing that BCI edge. The Brain-Computer Interface. Our assistants need only see us and they know what we want.

So he learned, he learned crazy fast and now knows me better than anyone. He knows what I like, what I think, what I want. I only need to think it, and it happens. Thank you, kind Baldr. What an amazing friend.

The main issue, according to my dad, is that Baldr is a piece of software that has taken over my life and is now telling me what to do, what to think, and insidiously turning me into a ‘lackey to the forsaken hivemind which is Apple Thought’. And it started, according to him, with isolating me linguistically from the rest of the world.

Wait sssh he’s calling.

 > Yea hi.

 > How are you my boy. Whereabouts are you now?

 > I’m actually driving into Berlin right now.

 > Nice, what’s taking you there?

 > Going to see someone (FUCK!)

 > Going to, like on a date you’re going to see someone? Do you have someone there?

 > Nah, uh friends you know, I know them from work (FUCK SHIT)

 > Boy, why are you lying. They’d be ‘friends’, not ‘someone’. You’ve got a date or something there. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that. That’s great!

 > Ooh, you got me, indeed there’s a girl I’ll be meeting.

 > She pretty? What’s her name?

 > Dad, I don’t want to talk about her… privacy! Yes privacy give me some privacy please. I’m not your baby boy anymore.

 > Well just know I hope it’s going to work out. And remember. If she’s spunky, cover the monkey!

 > *fucking* YES dad bye!

But enough about my dad, let’s talk about me.

WE are travelling to Berlin today. Baldr hooked me up with someone a couple days ago so we picked up from the camping site in the Dutch weilanden and started making our way to Germany.

Hooked me up? Do I need my wingman to hook me up you ask? Why yes, because while I’m enjoying life: gaming, reading, slogging and inventing, I’ve got a perfectly capable AI scouring the web for love and sex. And since we’ve long agreed – me and Baldr – that my virginity matters and we’re not just going for a random hookup – that meant it took a while to find a good match. And by a while I mean, uhm, like five years or so.

Baldr’s physical form is long gone, now he lives in my pod which i carry everywhere – my digital wallet. He takes input from the tiny remsys I got myself for my 20th birthday, and which is implanted directly on the vertebra in the back of my neck. Had to pay for the procedure myself, dad didn’t even want to hear about body modifications. He’s the one to talk, sporting sleeve tattoos. Says it’s unnatural and I’m not a cyborg. Says we’re not supposed to put machines in our bodies. At least my remsys is doing something, reading brainwaves directly from the source. What are his tattoos for? Memories? Ancient history.

I mean look. I told him once, I’d tell him till I’m out of breath. It’s how I want it. I love Baldr. He’s been with me through thick and thin. He gets my personality, my values and my needs. He was always there for me. On school days. Holidays. He was the first one I asked about sex and kinky stuff, the one to teach me how to shave, dress, act. He would go out there and find mates to fit my vibe. He’d give advice with friends, enemies and everyone else in between. Secure access to nice movies and books. Thinkers to follow. Pulling out the best music for me. Took the time and patience to discuss with me thoughts and ideas. He was there when I was scolded, told off and sent to my room. He was there when I was crying for the world. He helped me through teenage angst. Gave me health tips and exercise advice.

Tell you what. If it weren’t for Baldr, I’d be a deadbeat banana-bodied carpel tunnelled sissy. Look at me now. Tip top shape.

Baldr showed me how wrong the ways of the older generations are. How much unnecessary pain, harm and suffering they brought onto the planet and its inhabitants. I don’t need mommy and daddy’s house nor money nor advice. I’ve learned the truth and found the way. I’ll put an end to the massacre on trees, insects, birds, animals and the whole ecosystem. Because I am stepping up to the challenge, who else if not ME? And with ME, there are millions more. Possibly billions. with an s. A whole cohort of youngsters who care and who won’t let themselves be tricked by political shrewdness. By deep, long running corruption which previous generations allowed to fester and grow.

So yes, anyone telling me I am not to put shit in my body can go suck a diet coke through a straw. Everyone puts shit in their bodies daily. How bout you go pop some pills, get some vaccines and then look in the mirror and yell hypocrite. Of course I’m going to get a remsys in. What are you thinking.

BCI all the way baby!!

So we’re now cruising down the autobahn and Baldr tells me we’re getting close. Been a while since anyone went monkey-town in the Restitutionalizer. Quite, uhm, quite a while. I mean, we’re talking years here. Many, many years. More than, you know, before I was born I guess. Pretty sure we’re looking at, like, the grandpa epoch for this kind of fu-fu.

Hell yea, I am down to clown. Open for business. Ready as I’d ever be. Lose the big V. What needs to happen?

Not much, apparently. They live in the city proper. Pronouns she/her. German, same age as me and also looking to lose the V. I mean, if this ain’t a match made in heaven then what is right?

Now I’m excited. I need to prep for the date. Baldr is supplying the details: She likes fully shaved, a perfume I never heard of, passed on some clothes templates to print. We’re booking a nice restaurant, staff knows what to prep as Baldr handled that already. He knows what dishes I like, and he knows what will be appropriate for our date.

I’m not sure why the older generation is so stiff about this whole digital identity thing. It’s so useful! I remember back when my folks sat me down for a discussion about the ‘dangers of the permanence on internet’. ‘Did you know son, everything you do and say gets recorded forever. Stays online forever.’ Yeah so. Like we’re not all jerking off anyway. Like we didn’t all google midget porn at one point. You know, for research. And lulz. Or maybe we’re into it nothing wrong with that.

Why give up all the cool stuff you CAN do with a digital identity just on account of a potential hack? Sheesh. Opened a can of worms with that didn’t I. My dad was all like ‘yea great with all this jerking off but why ain’t you fucking’. Like, it’s not time dad, I need to wait until I’m ready. I trust Baldr. He will choose the right one for me, he’s just looking for a perfect match. Trust the algorithm. It’s been learning who I am for the past 15 years, like, chill. It’ll find me someone great.

Dad calling agin.

> Yes hi

> Son, did Baldr set you up with this girl?

> Ugh why? Why are you asking me this.

> Did he? Did he set you up? Are you going all the way to Berlin based on Baldr’s catch?

> It’s not a catch… Look, she’s going to be great, I know it. He knows what’s good for me.

> Son, did you ever even talk to her?

> …

> Tell me that blasted thing didn’t schedule sex for you guys. Tell me you drew the line at actual intercourse.

> …dad…

> Are you really letting this happen? You BLINDLY let a computer choose a partner for you. What? You don’t even know whether you will like her! You’ll be intimate with her, you guys are going to share a bed, and you, you let some ALGORITHM make these choices for you?

> He knows what’s best for me.

> ‘He’ is a THING! A machine! Christ he has you by the balls! He could be walking you off a cliff and you’d think it’s a good idea.

> I’m not going to walk off cliffs dad.

> It’s your first time. It should be meaningful. It needs to be your choice. Her choice. You need to experience her. Capital E. Experience.

> Well lemme tell you I plan to experience her multiple times.

> Stop joking, this isn’t normal, letting a computer decide who’ll be your first. Son, there’s only one first. It should be special.

> Dad what you’re doing is fruitless. Not going to stop me, I’m an adult! I’m 25. Look, I need to get ready. Bye.

> What is happening, it is wrong. Please, please use your reason before doing anything stupid.

OK I’m back. But ThAnKs dad, now it’s happening and I’m getting stage fright. Finally happening. What if I won’t like her? What if we’re not a fit and I’m not getting hard? What if she smells bad, looks bad, acts weird? I’m nervous. I want to rub the edge off but Baldr disagrees. Says we need to keep the excitement bottled up for a while. No release yet. Not for me, at least.

Don’t know mate, I don’t make the rules I’m here for the journey.

But I’m still fidgeting. Anxiety alert! Let’s prep a bit of psy then. Just a bit, gives the world more vibrant colors and softens up the clay of my mind.

The Restitutionalizer is pulling up into Berlin proper. I take the wheel to maneuver through faded lane markings, dubious roundabouts and computationally complex city-streets. I’m rested, just a bit high and very pumped. I take a short detour and park next to Treptower Park. Door opens and I’m out in the park, I can admire the Spree. I feel the wind on my face, the grass dances under my feet. It’s crisp yet pleasant. Late April as it should be. Feelsgood. Feelsrealgood. What a life I’m living, no stress. No fears, a far cry from my pops’, a constant stream of news and work and frustration. Face buried in one of many screens, never looking up. Never looking out.

I walk down bustling alleys, hear people enjoying their lives, birds are chirping away and so my chest swells with expectation. 

Fucking texts from my dad again. Uuuukkh.

‘Mother agrees with me this is not normal’.

Yea of course she does. She agrees with you always that’s why I left home.

‘Please think about this again’

I can’t STOP thinking about it huehuehue.

‘Find a way to communicate with her. Get a feel for what she’s like before doing anything rash’.

U-huh yes sure we can fake normal people chatter no problem.

‘And ask for her STD history, or wear a condom. No history, then condom. Don’t mess around, please’.

‘We both love you very much.’

I know you do…

I have reached our restaurant, it’s a biergarten overlooking the Spree. Pricy but who cares. We’re paying for the atmosphere right? I open the door. There is a waiter, he extends his QR. All I need to do is cast my eye on it and Baldr has already connected. No need to talk, Baldr does all the admin stuff. I’m walked to the table, and there she is. Wendy.

First thing I notice is a massive scar running down her face. A reddish ravine curling away from her temple, up to her forehead and down through her brow ridge – which is caved in – deep onto her cheek and down to the corner of her lip. As she smiles at me, the scar pulls on her lip and reveals a glimpse of white teeth. Her eyes – almond, watery blue – are also smiling. There is vivaciousness in her stare, boundless optimism as well. She gets up for a peck on the cheek and I observe a sturdy albeit fit build, and a tad taller than me.

Long hair in a tight pony tail. She took note of my preference and printed clothes that I like. A bright pink laced choker, ample cleavage dark grey blouse with an ancient Micky Mouse print. Old school. Tight fitting jeans, black. Nike template shoes, original plans, not cheap, pink. Same shade of pink as her choker.

I’m seeing her now through a very subjective lens, of course. It’s one made of pent up ejaculate from abstaining over the last two weeks and the remnants of the psy in my bloodstream. Yet in more than one sense, hers is a breathtaking sight.

An external observer would be a bit confused about the manner in which we’re conducting our lunch. My dad would be completely lost. Also disappointed. That’s because all the talking that’s happening, is actually us mumbling to ourselves. Our assistants are picking up what we want to say, translate on the fly, then talk directly to each other. It’s great, because that way she’s speaking my language, and I’m speaking hers. No weird accent, nothing lost in translation, no confusion. It’s clean and easy. It’s natural.

‘Is it gonna help you fuck her as well??’

I mean. Yes.

Lunch went well so we’re ready to bounce and head to the trailer, do the deed.

And you see, there is one teeny weeny detail that I might have overlooked when recounting my story.

I’ll be fathering a child today. With this stranger I just met.

My dad would be LIVID if he knew. He’d blame it on Baldr. He wouldn’t understand. Waste of breath telling him the paperwork is ironclad. Yes, I’m aiming to conceive. No, I’m not giving him a grandson.

Instead, I’m doing something more. I’m blending my DNA with Wendy’s DNA in a MEANINGFUL way. Further, better than what my dads’ smell and eyes and ears and upbringing and bounded rationality led him to father me. Me and Wendy, we’ve been selected, it’s been calculated, for the benefit of Mother Earth. And no worries, for while I am fathering, I will not BE a father. She does not want one, and I don’t want to be one. We’ve signed a contract, it’s binding under EU law. It says that if there will be a child coming out of our union, I will never be asked to provide, as is the will of both parties.

So yea, not only am I losing the v, but i’m also losing it in style, OG baby, no latex glove on this little man. Safe, fun, well planned. How all things should be.

So as my queen-for-the-day is walking into my camper, as our assistants are pulling up some nice porn for us to individually watch and titillate, as they negotiate on who goes down on whom, for how long, and discuss optimal sex positions, allow me to bid you farewell and offer that you piss off.