Professional Liar

I don't know when I first wanted to be a magician, I think the answer is that I never really did. I sort of fell into it, like a hedge or crime. Growing up, Paul Daniels had all the appeal of cholera and David Copperfield was about as convincing as my portrayal of Mary in the school nativity. To let you into a secret, I actually don't like magic. Why produce doves and bunny rabbits? What would lead to the need for small, white livestock of earth and air varieties? Magic is nothing but the gross flaunting of pretension, yet in spite of this, here I am twelve years later, lying for a living, deceiving on a daily basis. And why? Because underneath all this fakery, this gauche glitzery and sequin-leotarded defectacular is a blitz to the real, an assault on the accepted. It is the ultimate fiction, a fiction that defies all senses. There is nothing like watching the moment of brainfreeze as an onlooker, so confident in their condescension, takes a heavyweight punch to the known.