Santa is real. Oh, sure he is.
He's the one who eats all of the cookies and milk. He's the one who put those all those presents under the tree. Who else could do it?
The proof is in my childhood. I never told my parents what I wanted. My Mom would ask me, "What did you ask Santa for this year?"
I'd tell her, "I told him to get me Megatron or Optimus Prime!"
I fooled them all.
They all think I'm some kind of socialite. A guy who's always smiling, always talkative, always outgoing. They accuse me of being a "blabbermouth" or a "ham," whatever that is.
Ha. I'm so good, it scares me.
I am now the owner of my very first car: a brand-spanking new 2000 Ford Mustang Convertible baby!
I'll admit, I've never been a true car enthusiast. I know that to some people, my V6 automatic is a sacrilege to the Mustang name and Sports Car genre. I know they see me as a Yuppie Wanna-be-Badass.
So to all of them, I flip the bird.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN."
I was in a BAD mood. Really bad. It was one of those things that just hooks onto your mind; a bait that's almost impossible to remove. My teeth were grinding against each other; the muscles of my maw were clenched tightly in a twisted mass.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA