text: I firmly believe in the existence of Santa Claus. Mock me if you will, most non-believers do. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that He is real and that He visits all the good children of the world and gives them toys on Christmas Eve while they sleep. And try as I might to be a good person, I know that He does not consider me to be one. I know this because He hasn't given me a single present since I was eight years old. My parents supplemented the absence of Santa's gifts with ones that they bought themselves, and they did their best to try and convince me that there really is no Santa Claus and that there never was. They did this to spare my feelings but I know the truth. That He lives on the North Pole with his helper elves and magical flying reindeer. That He sees us when we're sleeping and knows when we're awake. That He knows when we've been bad or good. And that He finds me lacking despite my best efforts. I'm naughty in his eyes. I don't know what I did between the ages of seven and eight that was so heinous as to deserve such a fate. I search my soul everyday for answers yet it is always for naught. But I have faith that one day He will let me know what my transgressions were so that I may make amends. Until then I will just keep praying that maybe this year my tree won't be empty on Christmas morning.