oh, and world peace, please.

I stopped writing Santa a long time ago partly because I always knew that he didn't really exist (I was a parenting dream when I was a kid. I didn't have to be weaned away from bottles to begin with. On my first day of school, not only did I NOT cry, I even told my mom to go home and just pick me up at lunchtime. And, best of all, my parents didn't have to twist their brains trying to find the best way to explain the truth about things like tooth fairies or where babies come from. Birds and bees and storks? Pleeease, spare me. I'm trying to remember exactly when and how I knew what the baby-making pieces are and how they fit, but I can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment. It's like I knew by instinct. Kinda scary, now that I think about it.), and partly because I have painfully realized that when it comes to Christmas and birthday wishes, I never get EXACTLY what i want. I have better luck with wishes made on the other 363 (and a half) days of the year.

But at this moment, I wish there were really a jolly, rolly-polly man in red whose sole mission in life is to make Christmas morning the absolute BEST (in the most mercenary sense of the word, at least) time of the year.

So Santa, I will abandon all sense and logic present in my being and believe that you exist and are able to chute down chimneys (or enter doors and gates and windows and cave openings -I mean, there are kids outside North America and the cold parts of Europe who believe in you too, you know. Santa's not racist, right?), eat cookies, drink milk, leave a present lovingly crafted by elves from your bottomless sack of wondrous things, twinkle your eyes, and climb up again to where your sleigh and deers are parked, and repeat the process an infinite number of times, all in the span of a few hours. And yes, I've probably done my share of naughty things this year, but you and I know that I could've been a lot worse. A LOT. And I promise to bake you all the cookies that you want. Do you want cakes, too? Or even pies? Name a baked good, I promise to deliver.

Because i really, really, really want this.

You could also probably throw in a driver's license and a red Ferrari while you're at it, since you owe me, oh i don't know, twenty-odd years' worth of Christmas cheer. I'm just saying.