Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I'm writing with combined feelings of guilt and hope this Christmas. See, I was raised to believe that you can't just suddenly decide to believe in something when you need things. It's sort of like not going to church for 14 months and then praying really hard when you're pulled over for speeding. I don't even try that anymore. Usually.

I'm writing in an effort to encourage myself to believe. A cynic by nature, I tend not to believe in things, probably because finding out why I shouldn't is just more interesting sometimes. I certainly wasn't a brilliant child but the year you put plastic fruit in my stocking left me with no options. However, this year I'm willing to revisit my thoughts on your existence and assume the fruit in your bag was dangerously unorganic, so you opted to go with my mom's plastic variety. For my safety.

Of course I'm requesting the usual list of material things, including an apartment not smaller than our couch, a gas stove, a bathtub long enough to include my toes, a garbage disposal. Oh, and some sort of age reversal pill. Or 43 million dollars. Whatever. I'm not that fussy.

What I'm really hoping for this year is a little luck. I think we're due. If you can reach in your bag and find anything at all for this reformed non-believer, that's what I'll take.

In return, I'll be sure to leave out cookies and milk. Don't worry, I'm not about revenge. All my cookies just taste like plastic.

Faithfully yours,
Meg Pasz