Crushing Dreams.

I’ve always known that my first born would be called Amelie, if it’s a girl.

In any case, gonna have fun with my kids when they’re born and old enough.

“Listen. As you’re now four, It’s time I was honest. Santa…doesn’t exist. He’s a creation of man. He was made to give you something to believe in, before you inevitably get older and suffer from repeated heartbreaks, depression, and colds. That’s just the start. Don’t look at me like that. Who do you think delivers your presents? Santa? No. It’s me. While you’re asleep. Because I buy them from a shop. Usually a big one with miserable working in it. They have hollow eyes, some reddened from a night’s sobbing. Screaming “OH GOD! HOW DO I DO THIS? I CAN’T DO ANOTHER CHRISTMAS LIKE THIS!” at the mirror, toying inside with the idea of headbutting the glass and ending it all.

Do you think it’s realistic at all? To adequately please the entirety of the world’s population – because if you weren’t aware, children in poor countries DO FUCKING COUNT -, then he would need about 3 billion presents. How is he going to cram that into a sack and HAVE the time to do it. THINK!

Anyway, Merry Christmas. Stop crying.”


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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