When I was a young child, my parents would often send me to my room because I would monopolize their adult conversations and use big impressive words like discombobulated and soporific. I thought I was wise beyond my years and was more interested in what adults wanted to talk about than playing pogs with Billy.
When I did have conversations with other children, I was that kid that destroyed your reality.
“I wonder what Santa will get me for Christmas?”
“Santa Claus is your Dad. Grow up.”
My friend Theodore was telling me the other day that his eldest son still believes in the Tooth Fairy. His son came downstairs two days in a row complaining that the Tooth Fairy kept forgetting about him. In order to redeem the Tooth Fairy, Theodore wrote his son a teeny tiny note with teeny tiny letters explaining the situation:
Our sincerest apologies for being late. Sometimes, when it is really cold outside, ice builds up on our fairies’ wings and they fall out of the sky and crash. We have lost many of our sisters this way. Here is your money with interest. Thanks for understanding and enjoy your adult teeth.
I’m not sure how he signed it… The Tooth Fairy Corporation? Only Theodore would tell his son that good fairies are dying in order to bring him his money. What a quaint winter thought: every snowflake is just another dead fairy falling to the ground. I’m sure that J. M. Barrie, the original author of Peter Pan, would like to add that fairies are always throwing wild sex orgies and procreating like crazy so they will never become an endangered species. Thankfully, there will always be an endless supply of fairies because fairies are whores.
I may not have believed in Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy or any other fantastical childhood characters, but I did believe a few hindsightfully embarrassing things.
#1. I believed that Ricky Martin was straight. I even took a girl on a date to see Ricky Martin live in concert and we shook our bon bons.
#2. I believed that I was straight. I thought I looked at men because I wanted to look like them when, in fact, I actually liked to look at them. And then just looking wasn’t sufficient. And then Blondie sang, “When I think about you, I touch myself.”
#3. I believed that nobody else wacked off, but me. I thought I was a one-hand-one-man show. This fiction probably resulted from having too many girlfriends who were afraid to touch themselves.
Now, as an adult (or as close to one as I will ever get), I have a more educated worldview. But sometimes, as adults, we disbelieve so much that we need to suspend our disbeliefs or go bat-shit crazy believing in nothing and no one. It’s okay to believe in something. It can actually be quite fun. Just don’t jam it down other people’s throats when they don’t want it. That’s like raping people with your beliefs. And don’t accept everything that is pushed on you either. Then you’re an easy believer. Remember: everything is better when it’s a little bit harder.