My mom recently gave all of us kids a copy of our personal
scrapbooks that she had been keeping over the years. It started
with those grotesque pictures of us a few minutes after we'd
popped out of her ass, and continued throughout our lives as she
recorded, either with pictures, or clippings, or letters, our
seminal moments. She had it all there in black and white and
color. A history of those occasions in life that presented
themselves before us. The times that demanded to be defined by
us or promised to define us without our conscious participation.

Anyway, I was moved by one letter in particular. It was a
letter to Santa that brought back tearful memories.

Dear Santa,

My name is TZ and I'm in seventh grade. My friends make fun of
me because I still believe you exist, but I continue to defend
you no matter how harsh a criticism they dole out--"How else do
all those presents get under all those trees?" I ask.

Anyway, Santa, what I really want this year is not merely a
toy made of plastic, or new shoes, or another tub of liver.
What I want is for my girlfriend to blow me. If she refuses
then I'm not going to believe in you any longer...unless you
take it upon yourself to blow me. No blowjob, no belief. That's
the deal I'm making with you this Christmas Eve.



P.S. I stopped believing in Santa that year.