Dear Santa Claus,

Since I was a child, sitting at my window seal with my brother and sister until our little eyelids fluttered shut, I wondered when I would actually get to see this magnificent man that miraculously delivered presents to every single child in the world in one night.

I literally wrote you letters, quite like these, every year, wishing for things you would never deliver to me because (little did I know), you were as non-existent as the tooth fairy and Galapagos Girdy.

My parents were the true heroes.

Although I’ve grown to realize my parents letting me believe in you was tradition and a part of every child’s corrupted childhood, I still haven’t quite figured out why people worship you.

People literally dedicate a whole season to putting inflatables of you in their yards and on top of their roofs.

Children create shrines of milk and cookies in hopes that you will appear precisely at 12 a.m. because somehow you can simultaneously deliver billions of presents in the fraction of a millisecond to the entire world.

You have so many origin stories, but in every one you’re a conqueror or a saint, spreading “holiday cheer.” How can you deprive an entire planet their ability to be loving, appreciative, caring and giving for the entirety of a year and convince them that one day, “Christmas,” is the perfect time to show how much they love and care for one another by using gifts as a median?

I hardly blame you though, man.

Hell, you aren’t the one who convinced billions of people via a religious text that The Son of God was actually born during this time anyway. This original pagan holiday incited everyone to say, “Oh, well hey, let’s only celebrate how much Christ loved us obsessively on this day,” even though His every day on Earth was devoted to fulfilling His father’s purpose, which was ultimately becoming the procreation for our sins.

The ultimate sacrifice.

Yet, we forget about our sacrificial lamb as soon as this holiday is over. We forsake Him, even though He’ll never forsake us.

I understand you’re just a result of humanity's folly in needing to place their faith in the wrong things, but you’re an idol. The season of giving is a callous spirit of greed. Humanity's naivety, lack of backbone and failure to connect with their spirits, as well as so recklessly living through the lust of their flesh has caused them to become blind to the beautifully ripe fruit life has so graciously given us.

We’ve let it rot, and have carelessly kicked them to the side with such tainted revolutionary thoughts that suggest that we could bare our own fruit from the same pure place these gifts were bestowed from.

Nonetheless, Santa Claus, you are not even the equivalent of the dirt under my shoe. And screw you for not getting me that CD player when I was seven.

Sincerely,

B.B.