Charming people tell great stories - this is a universal truth. Stories from life, from their experiences, from their relationships - they tell us about it because they have something to offer. Their lives are vibrant, of course, and there's always a good story; a relatable, funny anecdote. It's because their stories are interesting, just like themselves. I don't have stories up my sleeve, I can't talk about a summer job or a political journey I embarked on, because my scope of experience is shallow. It's limited. And so sometimes, I create stories. Half-truths. Stories mixed with a touch of humor that I can't acquire, because it would sound stiff and awkward. Distorted jokes. And sometimes it works. Often they don't. It depends on the audience, the time and the place. Of course, I can't four score and seven years my way through it, because I just passed the three-quarters mark in twenty years. Not old enough, but old enough to have gained some stories. I don't know. Sixteen is too eccentric a number for me; there was nothing sweet about my sixteenth birthday. And honestly, birthdays? Sure, they're festive, but I think they should be dedicated to the mothers. Anyway. Back to stories. I'm a thief of them. My crime is my art.