i was six years old when i drew my first picture of a boa constrictor eating an elephant. adults, predictably, saw a hat. i sighed. adults are so predictable.

so i became a pilot. not because i liked flying, but because it was the only job where crashing was considered “adventurous” instead of “you ruined my car insurance.”

one day, in the middle of the desert (because apparently deserts are the only place where interesting things happen), i met a tiny prince. he had golden hair, a planet of his own, and a rose who, frankly, had the worst attitude i've ever seen in any living being.

“i want to visit other planets,” he said. “cool,” i replied, “just don’t get eaten by space boa constrictors.”

he showed me his planets, each with its own eccentric inhabitant: a king who couldn’t stop giving orders no one cared about, a vain man who demanded applause from his reflection, a drunkard who drank to forget he was drinking, and a businessman counting stars like they were baseball cards.

“adults are strange,” the little prince said. “yeah,” i said, “but sometimes funny.”

he told me about his rose. she was demanding, dramatic, and had a tendency to pout for hours. “she’s very high-maintenance,” i said. “exactly,” he replied, “but she’s mine. sort of.”

we laughed a lot. mostly at adults, sometimes at each other, and once at a desert cactus that looked like it had a bad toupee.

and that’s how i spent my days: fixing airplanes, getting lost in the desert, and realizing that maybe the funniest thing in the universe is taking life seriously at all.