My Semi-Fictional Life #69 (Personal Story)

Hello peeps. Today’s post is number 69.

Butthead: Hey, uh, Beavis. Huh-huh… huh… he said 69.

Beavis: Hehe, yeah, he-he-he said 69, hehe hehe…

Anypoop, I couldn’t think of anything to post today. I was going to write a review of Ham on Rye, by Charles Bukowski, but I didn’t get around to it. I was too busy playing Fallout 4, and I want to give this particular review all of my attention. So what to write… How about a rare personal story? How would that suit you?

I grew up in Fontana, California, which is a doppelganger for my the fictional town of my creation Bay’s End. I’m the youngest of four kids. My three sisters are fourteen, twelve, and nine years older than me. They are all my half sisters. Tammy (fourteen years older) and Gina (twelve years older) are from my mother’s first marriage, and Little Tammy (nine years older) is from my father’s second marriage. Little Tammy never lived with us. She lived with Dad’s ex-wife, but my mother paid for her child support because my father, being the shitstain he was, didn’t worked while he was married to my mother. In fact, he quit his job the weekend after they got married. He cut grass for cigarette and beer money, but he never contributed to the household bills. Class act, my father.

By the time I was five, my sisters had both gotten married and moved out. They would pop back in between husbands, but for the most part, I was treated like an only child. Because of this, I got everything I wanted for Christmas. We weren’t rich by any means, but Mom would max out her credit cards every December and then spend the entirety of the following year paying them off. Years later, when I started my own family and my mother clued me in on how she did things when I was a kid, I listened to her stories in shock. And, if I’m honest, I felt like a dick. How did I not realize how much debt she was racking up while trying to keep happy? The answer to that was Santa Claus.

I believed in the jolly old elf until I was 13. He had to be real, man. HE HAD TO BE! There’s no way my mother could’ve afforded all the shit I got every Christmas. Hell, I stopped believing in Jesus before I stopped believing in Santa. I used to make a proper fool of myself trying to convince the other kids in JUNIOR FUCKING HIGH! that Saint Nick really existed. To lend further credence the fat man’s existence, my grandmother (who loved to travel) would send me letters from exotic locations throughout the year and sign them as Santa Claus on vacation.

Dude, I loved Santa. He was my buddy. Shit, we talked on the phone all the damn time!

(My grandfather phoning from Palm Springs. This was before Caller ID.)

It wasn’t until I became too smart for my own fucking good that I ruined everything. Couple boys I hung out with were giving me grief over my continued belief in the magical man, so I finally decided to do some investigating. I read a bunch of books on Santa and asked some relatives and finally collected enough information to confront my mother. She successfully skirted all my inquiries, like the boss that she is, and I resorted to guerrilla tactics.

One afternoon, I cornered my father and said, “Mom said Santa Claus isn’t real. Why’d you lie to me?”

Of course Mom had said no such thing, but Dad didn’t know that.

He said, “Santa is more a feeling than a real person. It’s the spirit that counts. Now fuck off, I gotta cook dinner.”

That’s an exact quote. I’ll never forget what he said and the flippant way he said it.

Anyway, my 13 year old heart was broken. I told Mom that Dad told me there was no Santa Claus, and she lit into him. Gave him loads of grief over that. Now THAT is a fond memory. I don’t think she knows, even to this day, that I suckered the old man into telling me. Oh well. That’s what he gets for being such an asshole.

Can you remember when and how you found out there wasn’t a Santa Claus? I honestly want to know if my being 13 when I found out is some kind of record.

See you tomorrow,


Pic of the Day

Today’s the last day to get this free…




3 thoughts on “My Semi-Fictional Life #69 (Personal Story)

  1. I was perhaps 5 or 6 when I figured out Santa was more of a big guy dressed in a polyester red suit with a fake beard than a real spiritual figure who truly knew if I was a good little girl or not. Not nearly as traumatic as your awakening to reality on the subject. But it’s made you a twisted, entertaining writer, so I can’t say that I’m sorry it fell out that way.

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