Merry Reality

I watched Miracle on 34th Street the other night and it conjured up some feelings about the whole Santa concept. I've always found it weird that we lie to children for years and then break their hearts around age 8, just when they're hitting  puberty and becoming overly emotional (maybe that was just me; I developed early).  

Skeptical. 

I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I'm a mom (that is, if that day ever comes. The following words came out of my mouth last night: "I'd be delighted to find out I'm infertile"). But if I do have children, I don't know that I'll be able to pretend there is a Santa Claus (is that German?), mostly because if I'm going to spend my hard-earned money on some stupid PlayStation game, I want some fucking recognition. Santa gets all the praise while parents are literally risking their lives at Walmart for some discounted piece of shit that their kids cry about.  

Then again, I also don't want my kids to be the assholes on the playground that ruin everyone's day when they tell other children that Santa isn't real.  So, I decided that maybe I will tell my kids that there is a Santa. However, I'm putting his name on all the shitty gifts and mine on the best ones. Fuck you, Santa. I win. 






Editor's Note: Throughout this post I frequently mis-typed Santa S-A-T-A-N. Do you think that's a coincidence?