It's officially Christmas, and I feel the need to stop being sarcastic and tell a sappy tale. I don't know why, but it must just be the magic of the season (see, there I go).

i believed in Santa Claus. I even left him milk and cookies, and one time he wrote me a thank you note. I totally believed it was from him, too, because it wasn't in my mom's handwriting, and my dad's handwriting was too messy for anyone to read (he's a doctor). But looking back, I remember that the handwriting was like my dad's, if he tried really hard to make it legible.

I also remember a fellow pupil, Brian Goldberg (apparently another jew who believed in Santa), telling our teacher that he saw Santa one year, flying in the sky in his sleigh. I remember thinking that he was one lucky bastard, seeing Santa like that.

One year I woke up on Christmas morning and I couldn't find any presents by the fireplace. I told my parents, and we looked around the house, eventually finding them inside the other fireplace, the one we never used, the one i figured was broken or sealed off. Santa was one tricky devil, putting those presents in the fireplace he knew i wouldn't even look at.

One year, after talking about Santa Claus to my mom, she told me that he wasn't real, and she read in the paper that I was over the age that it was healthy for kids to be believing in Santa. I cried my fucking eyes out while verbally denying my mom's revelation. When I calmed down, I asked her about the Easter Bunny, already knowing the answer.

I don't know why my parents let me believe in Santa Claus, but I'm glad they did. I suppose it's more of a cultural thing than a religious thing, anyway. It was cool, because I didn't feel left out, although I always had to explain to people that although I was jewish, I still believed in Santa. Of course I always heard rumors that he wasn't real, but I steadfastly ignored those heretical remarks and believed in the magic of Christmas. Except, you know, for the whole "Jesus being God's son" thing.

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