Turkey Me

Yes, that was so embarrassing to admit, at age nine in fourth grade, that I still believed in Santa Claus. It was so utterly humiliating to be told that it was just my parents making me look like a fool. Cheryl always knew there was no Santa Claus so how could I have been so stupid as to take for granted that what my parents were telling me was true? How could I be so naive as to stupidly believe that there actually was a Jolly Ol' St. Nick who flies around on a sleigh every Christmas Eve dropping off toys for little boys and girls who are good? I always believed that I was good because every Christmas morning because there were the toys under the tree from Santa, and also the milk and cookies were gone, but now I am starting to wonder. Perhaps it was all just a ruse. Like Cheryl was saying, all that time it was just my parents who went to the store and bought things and gift wrapped them and put them under the tree. And they expected me to stupidly believe that an old bearded fat man would ever do me any favors. How wrong they were and how stupid I was to just accept this farce at face value. And yet even now society conspires to make little boys and girls believe in this mythical red-capped personage, he of the fur-trimmed sleeves. Why did I not rise up and seize the truth? After all, praxis demands that the people rise up and liberate themselves from these theological traps, to shake off these misty myths fogging their clarity of thought, these boondoggles that are imposed by the ruling classes. And yet there I was at age eight stupidly pondering whether the lights of an airplane flying overhead on Christmas Eve might actually be Santa on his sleigh. Yes, I was pathetically stupid at age 8 and even age 9. So what can I say? I was just wrong, hopelessly utterly humiliatingly wrong. Wrong. What part of wrong do you not know how to spell? All this stupid stuff about Santa is just W-R-O-N-G.