Merry Christmas

Back in second grade I felt obliged to inform Sean Johnson that Santa Claus didn’t exist. Sean was the last kid in class still living blissfully under the Santa Matrix, horribly coddled by his parents, and suffering at school socially because of it. Sean smirked and asked me rather plainly what I wanted for Christmas that year. I told him an alarm clock radio. Duh. He told me I’d never get it because I was a liar and Santa doesn’t bring presents to liars. Then he began to cry. School legend has it he wet his pants, but I don’t think that happened.

Sean grew up rather troubled. He eventually became a a grifter and small time drug dealer who was tragically stabbed to death at a young age. The Christmas of that same year in which Sean died, I found a package under the tree in my crappy studio apartment. It was unmarked but noteworthy for being decorated rather precisely unlike the assortment of messy newspaper wrapped boxes from my family of souses. I tore open the perfect packaging. There was the very same alarm clock radio I had hoped for some fifteen years earlier. I knew exactly what had to be done. I took it back to the store and exchanged it for a Palm Pilot. I didn’t want an alarm clock radio anymore. Stupid fucking Santa.

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