I would like to start this campaign by saying that Santa Claus is real.
Maybe there isn't an obese white man living in the North Pole who still uses child labor, but that doesn't mean he isn't real. Existing and being real are two totally different things, my dear Watson.
I know what you're thinking. "She can't possibly know what I'm thinking!" And you're right.
Some people say, "Of course Santa Claus is real. He is Saint Nicholas, the Patron Saint of Children. He gave gifts to the poor children a long time ago and blah blah blahasdfghjkl;." The first thing I would say to these people is that they should see a speech therapist. Then, I would remind them that their gentle saint was also the patron saint of archers and prostitutes. Do you want this man coming down your chimney? Besides, why do they declare people saints of random things? Is there a application you have to fill out to be a saint, where you have to have so many volunteer hours and include a head shot and resume? Do they still do that? If, so I want to be the Patron Saint of Awesomeness. Or maybe Awkwardness.
I'm still having trouble admitting that Santa Claus doesn't exist as a real person, and that my parents bought me my Kindle and dinosaur claymation kit. I didn't stop 'believing' until I was fourteen. This Christmas, I was kind of depressed. The magic was gone. The Christmas specials lost their joy. But then, on Christmas Eve, while wrapping my family's presents and watching 30 Rock, I realized that he is real. He is real because I say he is. Because millions of children say he is. Not believe. That's for children with innocence and misfortune. No, us American children know Santa is real, because we say he is and we will not take no for an answer. Just as Augustas Gloop can drink chocolate out of the river even though Mr. Wonka told him not to, we still know Santa is real, whether he is or not. Santa Claus is a feeling of joy, the magic of flying reindeer and jingle bells, the Christmas prayer when you tell God to watch his path and send snow, the spiritual watching of Elf, Christmas Vacation, those Tim Allen movies, and the classic Rankin and Bass cartoons. Santa Claus is the reason we get up at four am Christmas morning just to see bite marks and slobber on a cookie.
This Christmas, I woke up around four-thirty, and went into our living room. The tree was lit, a dazzling multi-colored lighthouse in my living room's dark ocean, and other overused clishes. The stockings were full, the presents were stacked high, the cookies were merely crumbles. I sat down on the floor and stared at the tree, and thought about my life. I'm sixteen years old, and I still believe in Christmas magic. Santa Claus is real because Christmas is real. If millions of children believe in the same thing, how couldn't magic happen? Santa Claus is real.
And even though it's not supposed to, I really want it to snow this year.
Maybe there isn't an obese white man living in the North Pole who still uses child labor, but that doesn't mean he isn't real. Existing and being real are two totally different things, my dear Watson.
I know what you're thinking. "She can't possibly know what I'm thinking!" And you're right.
Some people say, "Of course Santa Claus is real. He is Saint Nicholas, the Patron Saint of Children. He gave gifts to the poor children a long time ago and blah blah blahasdfghjkl;." The first thing I would say to these people is that they should see a speech therapist. Then, I would remind them that their gentle saint was also the patron saint of archers and prostitutes. Do you want this man coming down your chimney? Besides, why do they declare people saints of random things? Is there a application you have to fill out to be a saint, where you have to have so many volunteer hours and include a head shot and resume? Do they still do that? If, so I want to be the Patron Saint of Awesomeness. Or maybe Awkwardness.
I'm still having trouble admitting that Santa Claus doesn't exist as a real person, and that my parents bought me my Kindle and dinosaur claymation kit. I didn't stop 'believing' until I was fourteen. This Christmas, I was kind of depressed. The magic was gone. The Christmas specials lost their joy. But then, on Christmas Eve, while wrapping my family's presents and watching 30 Rock, I realized that he is real. He is real because I say he is. Because millions of children say he is. Not believe. That's for children with innocence and misfortune. No, us American children know Santa is real, because we say he is and we will not take no for an answer. Just as Augustas Gloop can drink chocolate out of the river even though Mr. Wonka told him not to, we still know Santa is real, whether he is or not. Santa Claus is a feeling of joy, the magic of flying reindeer and jingle bells, the Christmas prayer when you tell God to watch his path and send snow, the spiritual watching of Elf, Christmas Vacation, those Tim Allen movies, and the classic Rankin and Bass cartoons. Santa Claus is the reason we get up at four am Christmas morning just to see bite marks and slobber on a cookie.
This Christmas, I woke up around four-thirty, and went into our living room. The tree was lit, a dazzling multi-colored lighthouse in my living room's dark ocean, and other overused clishes. The stockings were full, the presents were stacked high, the cookies were merely crumbles. I sat down on the floor and stared at the tree, and thought about my life. I'm sixteen years old, and I still believe in Christmas magic. Santa Claus is real because Christmas is real. If millions of children believe in the same thing, how couldn't magic happen? Santa Claus is real.
And even though it's not supposed to, I really want it to snow this year.
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