I am a third culture kid. There are always two sides to a story and there are some things you probably didn’t know about us third culture kids. For example: we are lousy at keeping secrets, but great at asking questions. Just now, I revealed what you intimated to me to your worst enemy, while inquiring about the weather. But how can we tell if a revealed secret is a truth or a lie? Because I am skilled at the devious art of lying by telling the truth. I named this skill as paltering. Sadly, all this paltering non-lying has gotten me is a temp job as a third-string sewer scrubber. It seems that voters prefer a candidate that fibs out the fib-hole and flushes it down the fib drain. No, I needed to start lying—and fast. I quickly surrendered myself to the underworld of untruths. My pants spontaneously combusted and my eyes curdled. The deafening mantra repeated itself in my head. "Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!" This was my own doing. My burden to carry for the life of lies I embraced. "No, I did not eat your cake." They didn't buy that the cake was a lie to begin with. The cake is always a lie. Even when it isn't a lie, it is. Cake itself is not a celebration. My burning pants weren't doing anything to extinguish themselves, so I stopped, dropped, and rolled. I started laughing. The flames continued to rise. The cake morphed into a Baked Alaska. But it still wasn't my birthday. However the partygoers didn't realize this as they were busy being on fire. So I ate the entire Baked Alaska and jumped into the pool. The resulting splash flooded the town, emptying the pool. There I was: Sitting in a dry pool at a party attended by people aflame. I’ve had sucky birthdays, but this one took the cake…I mean the Baked Alaska.

 

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1 LordVacuity's photo

Nome wasn’t built in a night. Not even a long Arctic night.

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