Dear Santa, Letter (for adults)

Dear Santa,

I know, I know, this year has passed by SO quickly. I can still feel the pen on my paper from last year’s letter. I won’t pretend it has been easy, Santa. I’m not intentionally selfish when I complain about my first-world problems. Alas, they are problems, they are mine, and yes, they are relative to the world around me. The beauty of first-world living also dampens them, and no, I don’t mean a roof over my head and clean drinking water — blah, blah, blah. I mean Lexapro and Wellbutrin. God bless America, sir.

As I age, my wants and needs, my desires and passions, have shifted and swayed into a world, or a cacophony, of the runniest stacked steaming pile of shit that would put an elephant’s two-ton pile of poop to shame. The stench and the steam are so incredibly toxic to your dear old olfactory senses (you know, the ones you’ve trained so diligently for years to develop the perfect palette for sipping life’s ultimate necessity, wine) that they are now tainted with a runny, stinky, steaming, pile of shit.

Now that I’ve ever-so-appropriately set the stage for you to fully grasp, fully understand, that my world, dearest Santa, is not at all the peppermint bark, jingle jangle, elf singing, toy loving, reindeer flying, three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days-a-year Christmas caroling, and Angels We Have Heard on High, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, Christmas perfection, you can officially read this letter through the lens of a woman, who needs some serious Santa sugar.

In the past, I’ve asked for things like Brad Pitt, world peace, 500 acres, a small country to call my own, etc., but no, not this year, Mr. Claus. This year, I have adjusted my wishes to set a more realistic tone for my child to observe and be proud of as he ages.

Santa baby, if it’s okay to call you that, I’ve packed on some serious pounds over the past two years.

Side note: To that point, if you need a new Misses, I am ready for a ride on Santa’s sleigh, if ya know what I mean.

I could really use a Sven or Fabio, or someone strong sounding, to work me into some serious shape, to take off some of those serious lbs. Thanks.

I’d ask for world peace; however, I don’t think you’re in the business of annihilation in the form of mass murders. We all know we’ve got quite the list we’d have to hit to accomplish such an insurmountable task (D.T., K.J.U., etc.). However, keep it on the back burner, will ya? Thanks. Next, I’d like Botox twice a year for the rest of my life. I would also like a breast lift that will knock out those twenty-year-old hoes by both sight and physical contact and a cellulite remover that actually works. Get those elves up on that shit, please. I would also like permanent eyelash extensions that won’t somehow give me eye cancer by 2030. Of course, Imelda Marcos’ shoe collection — in size nine. Yes, my feet, they’ve grown with my body.

Santa, can we make America great again? Like, for real? None of these asinine falsehoods from MAGA. Can we run an internment camp where all of the extremists who don’t let people speak the truth, or poke fun at the horror in this world, or who accept that freedom of speech needs a safe space for their souls, yet they-won’t-let-people-they-don’t-care-to-hear-speak-their-truths-have a microphone, outwardly showing their hypocrisy like the dumbass college-aged students they are or are acting like?

Side note: That was my most favorite run-on sentence of the year, and I have many.

Can we corral all those fucks up together on an island called, I don’t know, say, Alcatraz or Molokai? If not, I am willing to give up the small country that I had previously requested as a place of internment for said fucks. Lastly, to this point, can we let people like me take their diatribes and give them a venue for listening ears? Thanks, man. Is it okay to call you “man?” I’m feelin’ like we’re developing this type of rapport with one another. I’m diggin’ our vibe.

Better credit. Like, the best. I need it — badly. How else will I purchase my perfect desert home in Joshua Tree? Are you still “in” with the IRS? Don’t worry; I’ll keep it on the down low. That means “secret.” Not sure how up-to-date you are with the lingo of these crazy kids in this crazy climate.

TRIBE. Can we please take that word back? It truly means something, and it has been decimated by the devils of social media that be. Now people all over FB (that’s Facebook, Santa) and Instagram are messaging anyone and everyone in a continuous manner to “join their tribe of ladies on the path to a better body, soul, brain, belly button, nose, elbow, and earlobe.” I mean, it’s almost as bad as my old boss who hated “the gays” and responded to a FB post where red was the color of a local pride parade by stating, “Oh great, they’ve taken the rainbow already, now they’re taking the color red, too?! They’ve gone too far.” Though I disagree with her sentiments, I do believe I would like to have the word “tribe” back in its rightful home. Thanks, jolly old man.

Dearest, dearest, darling, divine, dependable, distinguished, dutiful (and all other adjectives that begin with “d” that are delightful), Santa Claus. Can you, will you, please, please, pretty, pretty, please, bring me to the end of my dramatic, dysphoric, disturbing, diabolical, demented divorce? Can we end it all with a group of cheerleaders chanting, “Gimme a D! D! You got your D, you got your D. Gimme an I! I! You got your I, you got your I,” and so on? I’ll run down a football field shouting, “I’m freeeeeeee!!! With two bottles of the finest French champagne spouting out of the top, like Old Faithful on its finest day, all over me, flowing through my lips, and when I reach the finish line, the ghosts of Christmas past will fly away into the abyss, and I will never feel haunted again. And Santa, I’d like it to go down exactly like that, please.

On a lighter note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you for the one thing the ladies of the world are craving, an internal vibrator. One that a mere Kegel would turn on at any moment. I’m talkin’ a real, hit the g-spot every time, orgasm of the year every time, kinda device that is so perfectly designed by your most couture elves, who know their way around a clitoris, that is placed in a pussy ever-so-perfectly, and doesn’t need to be replaced for at least five years. And Santa, I’m more than willing to be the test pilot on this one. I’ll happily take one for the team. Thanks.

I’d also really love a two-week stint in some sort of establishment that mirrors a spa. This past year has taken its toll on me, and I desperately need some peace and quiet in a sanctuary where no one can contact me or find me for approximately fourteen days. A place where the world stops spinning on its axis, where the sky is always blue, and the sun is always bright. A place where there are endless amounts of delicious and healthy foods to clean my gut, detoxifying teas to rid me of my toxic year, horses to ride daily, meditations twice a day, calming and beautiful music with the sounds of waterfalls flowing through my ears, and of course, I would not be too terribly upset if we ended the day in some sort of “fun tea.”

However, NO FUCKING WEIRDOS, please! The place that I’ve just described houses the freakiest shaved head, I’m an earth goddess, my name is Moonbeam, and my spirit name is Sunshine, the dirt sings through the air a story of the past (which, yes, I believe, but not in an airy-fairy way), I only eat food that has fallen off a tree on its lonesome, and welcome to my tribe, kind of freaky-deeky, fucks. No. I want cool bitches (oh yes, no men allowed), who have been rocked by life a little too hard but are tough, down-to-earth (not, I am the earth — which we are, but stay with me here), badass bitches to rock this journey with me. Then, we’ll all leave in the back of a sexy farmer’s pickup truck for a day of wine tasting in Napa Valley. Thanks, Kringle.

I’d also really love 300 acres of amazing property using the most up-to-date methods of regenerative farming, an instant pot, a Le Creuset set in red, a microbiome that just won’t quit (it’s simply too legit — pick up what I’m puttin’ down, St. Nick?), Jimmy Choo heels, and a trip down Fifth Avenue with Anna Wintour, in which I get to have the personalized shopping trip of my dreams. Think “Pretty Woman.” Thank you.

I want to go back to Cambodia. I’d also like to consume happy pizza daily and go back to see Ta Prohm. While in Asia, I’d like a first-class flight, or I’m happy to ride with you, “Santy,” on your sled way up in the sky. Talk about the mile-high club! Hot damn! Our destination? Boracay, Philippines — My most favorite vacation spot on earth.

Now, jolly old man, I must state my disappointment in something. I’ve been asking for a Ferrari for approximately ten years now yet my driveway still provides a cold and lonely home for my Kia Optima. She’s treated me well over the years; however, I can’t help but see a shiny red Berlinetta ripping out of my driveway, blonde hair blowing in the wind, and flirting with every human I deem “flirtable” while cruisin’ down the 101. That, sir, is how I’ll get my sexy back.

I realize this may seem like a lot, jolly fella. I must state again, with a mighty emphasized voice and tone, reminding you that it’s been a long, challenging, and brutally trying year. I’ll be the milk to your cookies, Santa baby.

Love always and forever, you sexy old beast,

Heather XOXO

Featured image: Photo by Guido Fuà on Unsplash