When I was little, I was a believer in magic. And, by magic I mean those over-promising ads in the backs of comic books. The kind of ads that promised a world of wonder with just a few cents and a self-addressed envelope.

There were live monkeys sold by Jim Jones (before anyone drank the Kool-Aid), X-Ray glasses guaranteed to see through teachers’ clothing and even gen-U-wine shrunken heads from the South American Jivaro tribe but, I was smitten by the most enchanting, aquatic creatures ever to taunt the innocent imaginations of children everywhere … Sea Monkeys.

Sea Monkeys were marketed as delightful, playful families with the charm of Disney sidekicks and the charisma of Vegas showgirls. They danced and frolicked in their water kingdom, delighting in their tiny underwater lives.

I remember the colorful ad – “Real Live Fun Pets You Grow Yourself”. My little heart swelled with anticipation. I imagined them prancing around in their tiny, ornate sea palace, throwing tiny sea monkey soirees and generally living it up in a world far more glamorous than my own.

Fast forward to the day the sea monkeys arrived. I ripped open the box like it contained the secret to life itself. Inside was a sad, flat packet with the word “eggs” haphazardly stamped on it, a desiccated pile of what was meant to be their food and a very small plastic fishbowl. When I followed the instructions – those same instructions promising a bowl full of happiness – I was met with something decidedly less than happy. There were no “eager to please” sea monkeys that could be trained, there was just a murky, dismal broth that eventually produced indiscernible globs. I blamed myself for failing the sea monkey family and I wept while I recited what I knew of the “Lord’s Prayer” as I dumped the whole smelly concoction into the garbage.

And that’s when my trust in everything and everyone was permanently broken. The sea monkeys weren’t wondrous, vibrant creatures – they were a black mark on the permanent record of my childhood dreams.

And so began my gradual disillusionment with other childhood promises: The Tooth Fairy, The Easter Bunny, Liberty and Justice for All – all of them, like the sea monkeys just beautifully packaged lies.

With each revelation chipping away at my naïve belief in a world of fantastic possibilities, I learned to question glossy promises and glitzy ads.

In the end, though, I guess the sea monkeys gave me more than they ever promised – cynicism, a deep distrust of anyone selling animals and the ability to face the world with a more discerning, if not jaded, eye.