Should Kids Know About Santa? - Discussion #1

Jack and Breezy sit in their personal sitting room. Jack is wearing a gray and white long sleeve striped shirt with grey sweat pants and Breezy is adorned in a navy green flannel shirt and dark jeans. There is a crackling fire that creates a soft amber light in the cozy carpeted room, illuminating their faces with a warm glow. A large pot of hot chocolate simmers on a Bunsen burner and a Christmas tree sparkles in the corner, full of tinsel and colorful ornaments.  

Today's discussion topic will be themed with the season. Should parents tell their kids about Santa Claus?

Breezy: Nyeghyegn. I am very conflicted about telling my future children about Santa Claus. I mean there is a central focus of the ideal of fantasy in children's lives, and I wouldn't want to rob that from my own children. But I don't want them to lose their trust and me and destroy their dreams when they find out the truth. So maybe I shouldn't tell them. But I also would hate for them to be the sourpuss kindergartner in school that says "My mommy said Santa Claus doesn't exist."

Jack: You don't want to tell your children about Santa Claus because they would be dicks on the playground? I think that's going to happen either way. The older kids that were told about Santa will be dicks to the younger kids and tell them that he isn't real, right?

Jack crosses his legs like a girl.

Breezy: Yeah, you have a point. I guess I just want to minimize the afflictions associated with narcissistic injuries like that. I want my children to believe in something enough that they will justify it to dicks on the playground and hold their own ground. I want them to wonder. I want them to see the world in a wonderful way, before they grow up and lose their fervor for fantasy. 

Jack: Well now it sounds like you really want to your kids about Santa. But you're saying it like if you don't tell them, they won't have any wonder in their lives. Aren't there other ways to make a child curious and bold? And much more so than by the righteousness bestowed upon them by Santa Claus. Aren't there other ways to fill the gap created if you don't tell them about Santa? And then you wouldn't have to break the truth to them like you're so scared of.

Breezy: Maybe, maybe. But now I think I've decided to tell my children about Santa. Even if they praise the materialistic objectification of holiday consumerism instead of the person who actually worked hard to put the gifts under the tree.

Jack: I wonder if they would still be stupid little kids who whine over Christmas presents and don't appreciate the work of their parents. Maybe telling kids about Santa doesn't make any difference at all. I feel like I don't help my parents as much as I should, and then I still don't help them. Is that because I was told about Santa Claus when I was little?

Breezy: Alas, my affliction intensifies. 

Breezy sighs dramatically.

Breezy: Well, here's a possibility: I could tell my kids that I fund all their gifts and a good samaritan named "Santa Claus" runs around wherever he can and helps deliver the presents. Like some sort of indigenous UPS delivery man. That happens to be a recluse that lives in subarctic conditions. That way, they can still appreciate how hard I've worked to buy their gifts, and they can enjoy a sense of holiday cheer and pseudo-fantasy. And I could teach them that society has turned "Santa Claus" into a tall tale and uses the idea of him as a key pivot in marketing. And then I can sit them down and discuss the difference between worshiping objects and identifying good deeds that show up in human nature.

Jack: Ah, but what about when the time comes to tell them that UPS Claus isn't real?

Breezy has a mild seizure. 

Breezy: Jack, are you trying to give me anxiety? I thought I had this all figured out.

Jack: Well I suppose you didn't.

Jack giggles and paws Breezy's face.

Jack: Is there any other convoluted scheme you can come up with to make sure your kids both have a sense of wonder and are not unappreciative?

Breezy: Well ma'am, I'd almost thought that I just figured it out until you so blatantly pointed out the paradoxical ideology of my scheming brain. Well, since you broke this down to such black and white terms, I guess that sorta simplifies it...

Breezy takes a deep breath and lays back in her chair. 

Breezy: Well, assuming that my children are naturally curious beings-- like most children tend to be in their early ages-- they may start wondering why we set up a small tree in the living room and decorate it meticulously. And they may start wondering where the pretty presents came from. So maybe I'll just passively imply that mommy provided the pretty gifts as they get to an age where they legitimately appreciate what is provided for them, and learn that Christmas is a seasonal occasion, and leave them to question why this is happening. And then I will explain the basis of Christmas... also depending on religious affects... and designate the negativities towards the idea of a marketed holiday and deter them from such practicalities by going in depth on a further sense of childhood wonderment and telling them Yuletide tales about general "good-doers" that exist on this planet and how they have become objectified into the image of Santa Claus. And their sense of "wonderment" will be focused not on fantasy, but on the reality of the world. Because reality isn't always a bad thing... I can help them explore how good the world can be; how beautiful the act of giving is. And they won't need to believe that a jolly fat man is squeezing down our chimney and putting gifts under a random tree in the living room; wouldn't that also corrupt their idea of breaking into houses? They won't need to be the sourpuss on the playground, and they won't get disheartened when they come of age and move past the "childhood fantasies", because the only "fantasy" I will have established is that human decency exists and that's why people gift one another. So it won't necessarily be a "fantasy" because the idea of the image of Santa Claus will be the image of compassion and joy. The epitome of Christmas spirit. And how can you stop believing in human decency?  

Breezy drops her imaginary mic on the floor and stares at Jack.

Jack: You're going to make a great mother. "Hehehe... stage two is complete. Now to inject the idea of "human altruism" into their feeble young minds. They are developing quite nicely. Especially the boy."

Breezy giggles and violently nudges Jack. 

Breezy: Hah. Well. Maybe that's the kind of mother I'll be. You never know. 

Breezy yawns and curls up in her chair. 

Breezy: I think I'm content now. Thank you for helping me reach a conclusion in my inner matriarchal dilemmas. I don't know why these sort of things stress me out. I might not even have kids. Either way, I feel much better. I wish my parents had the same thought processes as you and I do. They fucked me up as a littl'un.

A Comprehensive List of Reasons Why You Shouldn't Text Like an Idiot

It makes you sound like an idiot.

What If?

There was a recent competition at my school to write a short prose story from your choice of three starters. This is the starter I picked:

So this is how it ends. What is it that brought me here, now? Could this have been avoided? Even I am no longer sure. But as I look to my past, I wonder, what if?

This was my submission:

__________________________________________________________

So this is how it ends. What is it that brought me here, now? Could this have been avoided? Even I am no longer sure. But as I look to my past, I wonder, what if? What if I had gotten fries with that?

What a pitiful state I am in, bereft of fries but longing for more. When the waiter came with pen in hand, I already knew that he also had infamous question in mind. I thought of my stomach, and how it was slowly winning the battle with my tucked shirt, sagging over my corduroys like some gluttonous monster from hell. I thought of my date, my beautiful woman, who I was almost certain was complaining to her friends about my eating habits. So, in false righteousness, I decided my fate. His mouth opened, and veritably spewed those fateful words onto my empty plate. Would you like fries with that? No, thank you.

And thus my destiny was sealed, for how could one go back on a promise such as that? My date smiled warmly at my answer. For a fleeting moment I felt as if I was in control. This facade of control over my own stomach. But it was not to last. As my burger dwindled in front of me and I could see more and white china peeking through the bun, my depression grew. I knew I would still be hungry.

And now here I sit. A sad soul. I have won the battle with my date, but not with my gut. It is pounding on my door, breaking it from it’s hinges with hunger. It needs sustenance. It needs love. It need fries.

And now that question will forever claw at the back of my mind, much like the hunger now claws at my throat. That small but infinitely meaningful question that one can never know...
What if?

Snapping Out of a Trance

Mons woke up feeling tired, and not to mention an hour before he was set to. He scampered out of bed and into the bathroom where he unplugged his sleep mask from his eyes and ran them under cold water from the tap. It had overheated again. He knew he would have to get them fixed soon or it could be dangerous. So he laid them on a towel next to the sink and got back under his covers and told his alarm to ring ten minutes later. It had been a while since he had slept without the mask, so he was worried he wouldn't remember how, but he was back asleep in no time at all.

At 7:55am, the alarm rang and Mons rose again, this time to a warm sunny day without panic in his mind. He thought of an outfit for the day and his shirt and pants changed to fit it. He felt as though the color was off a tad, but he couldn't argue. He ate breakfast and caught a bit of the news and before long he was out the door and to his work.

Mons preferred to walk to work rather than take the chute. He felt it woke him up in the morning and it was a mere 8.66 minutes by foot. He thought it could be a little brighter outside, so he adjusted the filters on his retinas and took away a few clouds as well.

As he was adjusting while still walking, which one should never do - but he was already a few minutes late due to the incident during the night, he didn't notice the woman walking right in front of him. They didn't collide directly, but their shoulders brushed and she dropped her entertainment tablet. It fluttered to the ground as Mons snapped out of a trance and picked it up before it touched the ground.

"So sorry," he said politely. "It was so mindless of me to not watch where I was going." He handed the tablet back to her and she smiled.

"It's quite alright," she said in a smooth voice. "I'm sure it was my fault for fooling around on my tablet in the middle of the street."

"What is that article you're reading?" He looked over her shoulder at the screen, taking notice of her bright orange hair and uniform white skin.

"Oh this? It's about this scientist who's studying intense emotions."

Mons' face lit up. "I absolutely adore emotionalism! Who is the scientist?"

They ended up talking for a healthy 11.3 minutes until Mons remembered that he was late for work.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, but I'm late."

"Oh I'm sorry for holding you up," the woman said. "But before you go, could I have your name and your identification? Perhaps we could keep in touch." She smiled sweetly.

"Oh of course. Mons. 0110062."

"Kiko. 0177394. I'll see you around."

Mons waved goodbye and hurried to work. He sat at his desk and typed on his computer automatically. At lunch he ate a sandwich and lazily blinked through his messages. Lots of updates on work and peppered with stories about the war.

He almost scrolled past an important message, but caught himself. 0177394? That was Kiko.

"An invitation to dinner?" he said to himself. He was eager to see his new friend again and quickly responded with a message of gracious acceptance.

Throughout the rest of the day at work he could barely wait for dinner. They were going to a very nice restaurant. For a first meeting he himself would have gone with something less extravagant, but enjoyed the thought that Kiko warranted the occasion as one fit for such an elegant location.

The restaurant turned out to be fancier than Mons anticipated. He felt as though he were underdressed. Kiko arrived shortly after him in a fancy dress and took him by the arm to their table. For the whole night they talked, about everything from emotionalism to the war to music to art. Sophisticated conversation no doubt, but they connected so well that their childish laughter filled their meal and the drinks afterward. The restaurant was almost closing when they left, getting in a hovering taxicab that whisked them back to Kiko's home.

"That was wonderful!" Mons applauded with a laugh. "I hope we get the chance to do it again very soon."

"As do I." Kiko smiled very brightly and gave him a warm hug before going into her apartment.

He didn't know why, but Mons stood at the doorstep for a few more minutes with a light smile on his face before walking back to the taxicab and going to his own apartment. When he was there he collapsed on the sofa with a sigh. He had thought about the night with Kiko the whole ride home. And he was still thinking about it now. About how much they had in common and how thoroughly they had enjoyed each other. And he kept thinking about her.

Suddenly he realized that his face was hot. And he felt giddy in his stomach. And strange in general. He wondered what might the matter, so he went to the wall and selected the doctor panel. A portion of the wall flipped over to reveal a small screen. Mons spoke his symptoms into the screen and it split in two, opening a chamber that Mons laid down inside of patiently while it scanned his body. The machine gave a ring and out he crawled. The chamber contracted and the screen assembled once again with large red words on it.

DIAGNOSIS: LOVE

Mons stared at the screen with horror and disbelief. He muttered to himself and pressed a button. He scrambled back into the chamber for a rediagnosis. But when he got out the screen remained. In large looming letters it pierced him. He was in love.

He staggered backwards and luckily landed on his sofa. He was sweating. Hot. He was terrified. He knew that through scans and tests an equal and opposite partner was selected when one was ready to share their life with someone. The tests were never wrong. Anyone who deviated and was attracted to someone else was insane. Love was a rare and deadly disease. Mons went back up to the screen and with a trembling finger he pressed the information.

There it read:

Love is a very rare disease where one is attracted to someone who is not their selected life partner. Symptoms include fever, sweating, dizziness, and obsessing over the person they are attracted to. It is difficult to treat, but in some cases patients have received medical help before they lose their mental and physical health.

Frequency in males: 0.58%

Frequency in females: 0.97%

Mortality rate: 92%

Would you like to send this diagnosis to your doctor, Mons?

He quickly closed the panel. 92 percent. It rang it his head. He didn't want to die. He was doing well at his job. He was almost ready to meet his life partner. He was talented. But now it could be all over.

He put his face in his hands and hunched over, almost crying. He had never felt this bad before. But still... through all of it he couldn't shake his feelings for Kiko. How she talked so eloquently. And knew about the things he liked. And how she looked at the restaurant. With her beautiful hair tied up in two short orange curls and her soft face and her white dress that made her look like an angel.

He wanted to see her again. He knew what it would mean but he wanted to see her again. Just once. To explain it all. And then he would get treatment. But maybe he was already insane.

As he picked out a good coat to leave the house for, there was a tone in his ear that told him someone was at the door. 0177394. He slowly opened it and there stood Kiko, still looking beautiful, but concerned.

"Uh... hi again," she said nervously. She looked up at Mons. "You look red. And anxious. Did you get the... uh..."

"I did."

She closed the door behind her and took off her scarf. "Are you going to get treatment?" She stood in the middle of the living room.

He hesitated. "I think I am."

She looked down. "Well... I've made my decision."

"What is it?"

"I'm not getting treatment," she said firmly.

Mons was startled. "But why not?"

"One of my friends died of love a few years ago. I watched her spiral into madness. But after all of it, just a day or two before they took her to the hospital, she told me about it. She had 'fallen in love,' as they say, with a girl she had met in the park one day. For a week or two after her diagnosis she sneaked around with this girl and did things she said she couldn't tell me. But that day she sat down with me and told me that... it was the most amazing feeling in the world. Love, that is. She said he wouldn't trade it for anything. She couldn't really explain it all that well, but she said that it was worth dying for. And I believed her."

Mons was speechless. What could anyone say to that?

Kiko looked away from the ground and into his eyes and suddenly kissed him. Mons was startled and scared. He knew that if he acted on this, it was a sentence. A condemnation. There was no going back. But he believed, too.

As they gave into their disease, their doors silently locked and ambulances rushed to the apartment. Doctors and other professionals with masks on and tools out broke into the living room and held Mons and Kiko down as two men administered shots to their necks. Then they were carted away. The apartment was quarantined. Sad messages were sent to their close friends and family.

Kiko died on the 4th of April, 2201 at 23:42. She will be missed.

Mons died on the 4th of April, 2201 at 23:41. He will be missed.

Short Thinkings, Wordwrites, and Mindcraps

The hardest thing to do is say goodbye. Especially if you have a debilitating speech impediment.

The only one who can tell you what’s right is you. And those creepy voices in your head.

No one respected Kyle, and just because he was gay. And also he was an arsonist.

“I’m going to jump!” she screamed. I grabbed her hand and she turned around. As our eyes locked, she whispered, “Oh Jack, I love you too much.” But as she stepped away from the ledge, she suddenly slipped. Damn narcolepsy.

The pig snorted on me. It was so adorable that I had to giggle. But when he did it a second time, I ate him.

Just be yourself. Unless you're a dick. If you're a dick then be someone who's not a dick.

The man slapped me with the back of his hand, so I slapped him with my knife. He wasn't as tough as he looked.

She was about to be lowered into the lava, but I really wanted to finish my sub.

I like it when it’s too cold as opposed to when it’s too hot, because when it’s cold you can just keep putting on more clothes, but when it’s hot there are only so many clothes you can take off before you get arrested.

I think Brian has touched all our hearts. And his drugging us and operating on our hearts while we sleep can’t be tolerated any longer.

I tried to throw my sword in the garbage, but it just split it in half. So I gave it to the garbage man, but it just split him in half.

When I don't have any plans on the weekend, I practice guitar a lot. ... I'm going to be Jimi Hendrix.

On the outside, I might look fine. But on the inside, it really hurts. Because my appendix just burst.

For the longest time I thought "oral sex" meant phone sex until somebody told me you could get an STD from it.

The Location Where the Uncivilized Creatures Reside

The Location Where the Uncivilized Creatures Reside

a storybook for the precocious child

The eventide Maximilian donned his Canis Lupus garb and proceeded to perpetrate shenanigans of one fashion.

and another

His female parental guardian denominated him, “UNCIVILIZED CREATURE!” and Maximilian ululated, “I’LL GORMANDIZE YOU SUPERSONICALLY!” so he was directed to his quarters without masticating any alimentation.

That particular eventide in Maximilian's quarters a timberland materialized.

and materialized-

and materialized until his ceiling hung about with botany and the confines of the room transformed to the terrain all about.

and a brine of gargantuan proportions plummeted by with an esoteric sea vessel for Maximilian and he voyaged off amidst dusk and dawn

and in and out of fortnights

and almost over a year to the location where the uncivilized creatures reside.

And at the time when he arrived at the area where the uncivilized creatures reside they caterwauled their horrendous caterwauls and gnashed their horrendous fangs

and rolled there horrendous ocular nerves and displayed their horrendous talons

until Maximilian commanded “BE ARCADIAN!” and domesticated them by utilizing the mystical artifice

of gazing into all their vermillion-hued visions void of blinking once and they were emasculated and designated him the most uncivilized creature of all

and appointed him monarch of all uncivilized beings

“And thusly,” proclaimed Maximilian, “Let the barbaric cacophony commence!”

“Now cease!” Maximilian portrayed and whisked the uncivilized creatures off to bed lacking any food-based indulgence. And Maximilian the monarch of all uncivilized creatures felt sequestered and longed to be where someone adored him utmostly.

Then all throughout from far yonder athwart the heavenly body he whiffed desirable pleasantries to partake of, so Maximilian relinquished being emperor of the location where the uncivilized creatures reside.

But the uncivilized creatures moaned, “We beseech: don’t elope - we’ll dispatch of you - we are keen of you so!” And Maximilian spoke, “Negative!”

The uncivilized creatures caterwauled their horrendous caterwauls and gnashed their horrendous fangs, and rolled their horrendous ocular nerves and displayed their horrendous talons but Max ascended upon his confidential schooner and waved farewell

and sailed back over a year and in and out of fortnights and over a 24 hour period

and into the dark hours of his very own quarters where Maximilian discovered his supper awaiting him

and it was still of adequate temperature for ingestion.

A Million Moments

If I could hold a million moments in my hand, 

If I could waltz away on drifts of sand,

If I could see
The lonely sea,
With only one
Waiting for me
Maybe I
Would believe 
Just one

Moment - and my hands would be too full to hold it.