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dear Santa
Dear Santa,
My name is Daniel, and I'm writing this letter with my sister Rose, she's 6, and I'm 10, and we have some questions for you? Have we been good this year? Where did you come from? How old are you? Do you have any hobbies and are you even real?
Yours truly,
Daniel and Rose
Dear little Daniel and Rose,
Now I rarely ever write back to kids, but you two are actually exceptional to me. I've always liked young curious minds, most children ask for presents, and that's why I like you both. You asked for answers, and I'll answer as honestly as I can.
First, yes Daniel and Rose, you both have been good this year. Well, except that time you two broke that dish and lied about it, that was naughty, but I'll let it slide. Wink wink.
Where did I come from? I don't know it was such a long time ago. Perhaps I was born out of the imagination of millions of children. I honestly don't know. I'll think about it some other time. As for how old I am, I can't tell, but I am quite an old man, aren't I?
Do I have any hobbies? I have a few. My favorite, I like to watch. Watch what? Well, you, of course. I like to watch you undress in the false safety of your room. I like to touch myself to your small, naked body while your ignorant parents believe they can protect you from bad guys. Am I a bad guy? Do you think I'm a bad guy? Am I supposed to care?
You have to understand the feel of your soft skin feels so euphoric. Every kiss I plant on your sleeping body feels to me with an unexplainable rush. I like to watch your face beam up when you catch me in your living room, munching on the milk and cookies you left out for me. You finally caught Santa. You must feel so proud.
Then I like to watch that joyful expression turn into one of confusion as I begin to pull down my pants, the shock freezing you on the spot as I walk to you naked from the waist down. I like to watch the shock turn into one of horror and I grab you. You scream and scream. Mommy! Daddy! Nobody can hear you. I like to watch you cry. Then I like to watch you forget and wake up looking forward to opening the presents under the tree.
Am I real? Well, that depends on how much of the trauma your brain helps you bury. It's not just you two, my darlings, it's every last one of you. You all carry a part of me. Some of you grow up to believe I don't exist to help cope. It must have been too painful. If you wished me away, then it never happened, right? Daniel, Rose, I think after I visit tonight you might grow up to believe I don't exist.
Yours truly,
Santa
My name is Daniel, and I'm writing this letter with my sister Rose, she's 6, and I'm 10, and we have some questions for you? Have we been good this year? Where did you come from? How old are you? Do you have any hobbies and are you even real?
Yours truly,
Daniel and Rose
Dear little Daniel and Rose,
Now I rarely ever write back to kids, but you two are actually exceptional to me. I've always liked young curious minds, most children ask for presents, and that's why I like you both. You asked for answers, and I'll answer as honestly as I can.
First, yes Daniel and Rose, you both have been good this year. Well, except that time you two broke that dish and lied about it, that was naughty, but I'll let it slide. Wink wink.
Where did I come from? I don't know it was such a long time ago. Perhaps I was born out of the imagination of millions of children. I honestly don't know. I'll think about it some other time. As for how old I am, I can't tell, but I am quite an old man, aren't I?
Do I have any hobbies? I have a few. My favorite, I like to watch. Watch what? Well, you, of course. I like to watch you undress in the false safety of your room. I like to touch myself to your small, naked body while your ignorant parents believe they can protect you from bad guys. Am I a bad guy? Do you think I'm a bad guy? Am I supposed to care?
You have to understand the feel of your soft skin feels so euphoric. Every kiss I plant on your sleeping body feels to me with an unexplainable rush. I like to watch your face beam up when you catch me in your living room, munching on the milk and cookies you left out for me. You finally caught Santa. You must feel so proud.
Then I like to watch that joyful expression turn into one of confusion as I begin to pull down my pants, the shock freezing you on the spot as I walk to you naked from the waist down. I like to watch the shock turn into one of horror and I grab you. You scream and scream. Mommy! Daddy! Nobody can hear you. I like to watch you cry. Then I like to watch you forget and wake up looking forward to opening the presents under the tree.
Am I real? Well, that depends on how much of the trauma your brain helps you bury. It's not just you two, my darlings, it's every last one of you. You all carry a part of me. Some of you grow up to believe I don't exist to help cope. It must have been too painful. If you wished me away, then it never happened, right? Daniel, Rose, I think after I visit tonight you might grow up to believe I don't exist.
Yours truly,
Santa
