I believe my child is invincible. There is someone up there watching over him.
Years later, I still lose sleep over the greatest magic trick I’ve ever witnessed. Of the nearly 500 acts I’ve seen and dispelled in my books Hocus Pocus Focus, a twelve-part – and counting – anthology of how magicians have continued to fool us, it is the only one to elude me.
In the wake of the Godzilla 1999 disaster – the one relevant to my own life, not the one at the Hollywood box office – I soon developed rudimentary knowledge of the self. Although I was born quite cognizant of my superiority and eventual aspirations in this world, I think it took an excruciatingly extensive time out before I began questioning my existence within the context of other people.
Therefore, at the age of six, I took the next logical step in my metaphysical development, and found a love of country.
One of the earliest childhood concepts that parents tend to establish is the idea of ownership. As in that toy is mine. And that one. And that one. As in what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.
As in I never really took to this lesson. As in I’m a hard learner.