Dear Santa, I Gotta Get Something Off My Chest

Dear Santa,

I’ve got some seriously complicated feelings that I gotta get off my chest.

Back in the day? You were the harbinger of Christmas, a jolly good man armed with a shit ton (it’s metric) of toys, and I believed, Santa. With every bit of my little, innocent heart. Then, virtually overnight, you became a laughing stock to me — a pretend dude only little babies still believed in.

[Read the rest at AimingLow]

Photo Credit

Instant Classic

Okay, let’s see here…Lovie? Check. (Don’t let the near-perfect smile fool you. She’s barely holding it together, but Lovie’s still a check.)

Alright…Pookie? Check.

A, B, and C? Check.

Bald spot? Check.

Meltdowns? That’s a check and a double check thanks to both A and C.

Look of fear? Yup. B’s got that covered. Check.

Santa? Santa? Uh oh. Where in the world is Santa?

Houston, we have a problem. Santa’s nowhere to be found, and I don’t like our chances of getting this bunch back here for a second picture. In fact, I think the dad just made a beeline for the bar.

WAIT. WAIT. My bad. We got him. Santa’s in there. His eye that is. And that’s all we really need. You know, the whole “He’s sees you when you’re sleeping,” bit. We’re good. False alarm.

from l to r: B, Lovie, C, Santa's eye, Pookie, A, and me.

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