One October night, I was lying still in bed. And visions of santa hats, homecoming, cuddly nights out, wrapped in a love so pristine, sprinkled with snowflakes, floated by.

Hoho, I just can't wait for Christmas this December!

Then. I realized something.

I was thinking along this line: at Christmas, I will get back all that I've lost. The days that can never be relived, the could-have-beens, the goodbyes I was never good at, those long lost smiles, the hearts I've broken, and the loaf of wholesome boys I have smashed. Sorrys just aren't enough, so I won't say it at all, not to these yellow fluorescent smiley faces with two dots for eyes and a quarter-turned bracket for a mouth.

Everything would tumble back to me. In wrapped presents under the Christmas tree, satin ribbons and pretty wrappers. Guess what, I was here all along, just that you only saw me on Christmas morning.

Snort.

Thinking like a disillusioned eight year old kid who crosses-her-heart-and-hope-to-die believes that Santa Claus lives at the North Pole and has a red-nosed reindeer called Rudolph. Santa is just a pedophile who makes little Lolitas sit on his lap and whisper hush-hush into his blushing ears. And if you want reindeers, the zoo's that way.