An Open Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

 

I know in my heart you’re not real.

That hasn’t quelled the rage I’ve been carrying for nigh on two decades.

I heard tales of your conditional generosity my entire life.

Media like Kidsongs and The Polar Express taught me that if someone had a pure heart and believed in your mythology, they would be blessed with their heart’s desire.

Apparently my belief wasn’t strong enough or my heart wasn’t pure enough, because I never got what I truly wanted for Christmas.

Tonight, I’m calling you out:

Where is my PONY?

You mean to tell me that I was socially conditioned by female-centered media to want a pony…for nothing?

Has your stock been low for…the last TWENTY YEARS??

I dreamt of a pony for years and I even knew what KIND I wanted:

A Shetland.

OBVIOUSLY.

Shetlands are solid. Stable. Compact.

AND SMALL.

I HAVE LIVED IN THREE-BEDROOM HOUSES AND TWO-BEDROOM APARTMENTS FOR MOST OF MY LIFE.

TRUST ME: THERE WAS ROOM FOR A SHETLAND.

It’s too late to fix it now.

I’ve given up on ponies.

Not only am I WAY too big for a pony, all my hope is gone.

I ask for books for Christmas now…like a boring ADULT.

This was your doing, Sinterklaas.

YOU did this.

I’ll never forgive you for it.

 

UNhappy Christmas to YOU,

Lauren