I have written to you with numerous desires in the past. When I was eight years old, I wrote you a letter that contained a list of over 120 items that I wanted, with the ones I wanted most of all circled and highlighted. When you failed to get me even one of those items, I sent the same list the next year, unfazed, but again received the same troubling result: nothing. I sent it again, this time with an explanation of why these items were important to me, knowing that you’d see in your kind heart the reason for obtaining these items for me. I was once again disappointed that year: you got me a drum kit. A drum kit!? Of all things, a drum kit!? I didn’t want drums. There were over 120 other things I wanted more than drums.
I was confused more than I was upset: how could Santa have gotten this so wrong? Is he just a retard? That’s what my friend Walter said. But Walter can be a jerk sometimes, so I kept on believing in you, that you were going to come through, that you’d actually get me one of those 120 items. I sent you the list again each year, up until I was twelve years old. That’s the year you got me the fish tank. Fish!? I hate fish and you know it. I had to feed those fish for two whole years before they finally died in the muck-infested waters that I never cleaned. Then I had to figure out what to do with the tank; that was the worst experience of my life.
It’s been twelve years since the date I finally tossed that fish tank into the dumpster. I still haven’t forgotten what you did to me. I’m writing this letter to you, Santa, to plead with you for one last gift. Forget all the other 120 items: this year all I wish for is an alternate reality in which you actually exist, in which you actually show up on Christmas day so that I can look you in the eyes and tell you how much I hate you. So I can finally pay you back for all the years of miserable gifts and unwanted trouble you caused me. If I could have this one thing, that would make up for everything you haven’t done for me in the past.
Santa’s eyes glossed over with tears, which quickly froze in the cold arctic climate. His cheeks puffed up red with pain as he realized that once again, he would be unable to give Richard what he wanted.
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Alternate Realities'.