I am writing to you to clear a few things up between us. This may sound crude but here goes. I do not believe in you, not an ounce, not a bit, not at all.
I did have faith in you once, long ago, but I am not sure exactly when and why the non-believing began. Maybe it’s my parent’s fault. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I never made the nice list. Maybe you couldn’t read my writing. Maybe I asked for too much, but for whatever the reason, you never could get my requests quite right.
Why am I telling you all this, Santa? Well, I have an issue, my children. They believe in you, and I cover for your sorry, red, carcass. I lie, lie, lie, like a basest hound sleeping on my front porch. I tell them that you are real. I tell them you live at the North Pole with Mrs. Claus and the hardworking elves. I convince them that you are watching them everyday, all day, and they better be good, for goodness sake. I even put a freaky little elf on my shelve to assist you in your so-called “job”! I eat the cookies and drink the milk they leave for you on Christams Eve, and did I mention I am lactose intolerant? I do all this and more, in hopes that they will continue to believe in a jolly old elf with a sack full of toys and a heart two sizes too big!
So, this year, Santa, I am only asking for one, small, itsy-bitsy gift. I want to know you are real. Send me a sign, an omen, anything. If you could only let my ears hear the sound of jingle bells and reindeer hoofs on my rooftop. Let my eyes behold a sleigh lead by a big man dressed in red and eight tiny reindeer, and let my hands open a present from underneath my tree, not bought and wrapped by me, and addressed from Santa Claus. Please, Santa help me to believe!
P.S. Just know, Santa, that it may take a miracle like the one on 34th Street!