When I was a child, I hated Santa Claus. Yes, you read that sentence correctly. I hated the whole idea of Santa. Who was this creepy guy who snuck into my house at night while I was sleeping? If he could get in, who else could get in?
My family had a styrofoam Santa sleigh with a plump cotton Santa and nine wax reindeer. Maybe it was the lack of quality adult magazines, I don't know, but I had one of those ideas so profoundly stupid it made future mistakes seem like child's play.
Forget visions of sugar plums, Christmas gives me visions of future therapy sessions dancing in my head. Because someday is the not-so-distant future, I'm going to have to admit that Santa is a big, fat lie.