Kidnap the Crazy Claus.

Yet another Christmas has disappeared within the hours of the day. It's so strange how something that was once so magical as a kid is so simple when you hit puberty. The little ones, after a long day of beating (me, not them), fall asleep in bed, and we all put the gifts under the tree, build the train sets, hang the stockings by the chimney with care (except not really because they're far too heavy for that). How the kids manage to open presents longer than anyone because toys (can be/are) so cheap. Adults get a few decent sized gifts and then it's done. Then you eat lunch. Maybe watch a movie. Or spend the afternoon doing crafts with a friend like I did...and then work for 6.1 hours for time and a half. Cater entertainment, representing yourself as the only open business in town.

And then before you know it, you start writing a blog until it's the 26th of December.

It's strange not having all your brothers and sisters around for the whole day...or even to not have them there at all. For them to disappear right after lunch. For them to arrive late. To not be the youngest squirt running around beating people.

This year, I dub Casual Christmas.

<3<3<3

I don't know what to talk about so I'll take this excerpt to gripe more on the subject of honesty. I am a needy person. What is it that I need? The whole truth.

I'm not someone who just hates being lied to, though that of course is one of the worst things you can do (especially when I announce the truth and you just deny it). I'm someone who wants all the facts. I'm not that person who "doesn't want to know." I am a big girl, world.

I can handle the truth.

I can handle a lot of things.

<3<3<3

Self-exploration, we could talk about that more, right? Jesus, I always talk about the same seven things. I guess telling people on the phone that "yes, we are indeed open, that's why I'm answering" all day wore me out. (I'm a wuss. Some people have actual jobs and I should shove it.)

Yet anyways. It's funny, realizing the changes you go through.

Most people naturally transform, and I did up until recently, until I decided to take control.

People talk about a poetic license when writing...I like to think I have a writer's license on life. I use it as my excuse to try anything I want. Anything. Whether, you know, that's something like diet pepsi (argh, diet!) or a new skin. Ha, let me tell you, I have a blast trying on a new skin.

I am an introvert (hear me roar). So it's hard, the new skin thing sometimes.

But I also had a high school drama teacher for a mother.

I can successfully pretend to be anything I want. And sometimes I'm so good that I let people know I'm pretending so they won't really know when I am. They'll think I'm obvious.

I like catching people off guard, collecting their reactions in my safe.

I like convincing teachers I'm quiet and a rule-follower.

I like convincing strangers I'm more interesting than I really am.

I like convincing acquaintances to rapidly adapt their first, second, third impressions of me.

I like convincing my friends I have some sense.

I like trying on good and evil for size.

I really like convincing people I'm insane.

I like to think I'm this pretty sensible person, actually (and maybe that's the reason I'm not). But I had a crazy father growing up. I've watched all these Lifetime movies with my mother with these fascinating characters. I've often wondered what it would feel like to be crazy.

So I don't do it so obviously that someone's going to throw me in a mental ward, but very slyly, one of my many experiments.

I like watching people squirm.

Life is boring. I like laughing. So I make it interesting; at least for myself. Not everyone enjoys it, and by everyone I'm referring to the receiving end.

You know, it seems like the criminally insane are some of the most ingenious people ever. My father, that man's a declared sociopath, but I won't deny his wit. Not only is he extremely good at chess (that's only half-meant to be a joke, because I'm serious), but he can bug your house and stalk you better than Richard Ramirez (because that dude got the death penalty and my "daddy" just got breast cancer).

All those freaky psychopaths, sick and twisted and demented as they come...they're quite brilliant.

But have no fear, friends. This is not me admitting to being crazy. I'm just a writer. I just like trying things. Like diet pepsi and new skins. (Not of other people. I'm not Buffalo Bill.)

I'm just an actor in training. I'm learning to deceive you like you all have deceived me. I am the most sane person you might ever meet. I am a future psychologist. I love people. I love messing with people. I love butterfly effects.

Anyways, the most insane thing in the world is a person who's not the least bit insane.

So does "pretending" to be crazy make you crazy?

Good question...I was born on the day of the convincing storyteller.