Thursday, December 18, 2008

A Letter To Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

I know I’m not in the usual age group you go for. Matter of fact, I’ve well outgrown you. I’m 20 years old. But sometimes, I think, you need to have something to believe in. And what better to have blind faith in than a jolly man who gifts children worldwide once a year? The one man that, no matter what you threatened a misbehaving child with, would have an effect. These days there isn’t a child around that fears the wrath of God or his Mama. But tell them that being bad will force Santa to give them only coal and they’ll shape up real quick.

That being said, why I am writing to you? Because I desperately, desperately want something to believe in. Anything, really. And the things I want for Christmas this year, I know I won’t be receiving. The things I want for Christmas… well… the only way I’d get them is if a magical man from way up north bestowed them upon me.

I don’t want a pony for Christmas. I don’t want the big screen TV, I don’t want the shiny, new game system that costs more than I made in a month. I don’t want a sports car that would instantly land me in jail. Hell, at this stage of the game, I don’t even want a car (though I do admit it would come in handy, but I can’t afford it).

I want… I want to give a damn about the things going on around me. I want more than just an apathetic existence. I want to care about the life that is growing in me. I want to care about the child that I know I will give birth to in a few months. I don’t want to be indifferent to the child until it arrives. I want to be a good mother.

I want to be able to find a job somewhere in this wretched town, so that I might at least support myself. Right now, I have nothing. No job, no car, no money. No prospects. I have a boyfriend who seems like he can’t decide from day to day whether he loves me or hates me, the way his mood changes. He’s just… angry. At everything. At the fact that he’s not a rock star. At the fact that he’s stuck in this same wretched town. That he can’t seem to get anywhere. But at least he’s got a job. It might not be much, but it’s better than the great deal of nothing I’ve got. I want, need, a job. I need to get on my feet, or there will be no way I can support this baby.

But most of all… I just want to see my family. They’re 800 miles away, and the last time I saw them was when my father was laid to rest in Texas. I want to see my mother, my grandmothers, my brothers. Hell, I’d even be happy to see the aunt and uncle I loathe. But… I want to visit my father’s grave and talk to him. I want to see the place I grew up, where all my memories are. I want to be able to go home, even if it’s just for a week.

But I can’t. Because I’m jobless and broke, pregnant with a child that in all honesty, I don’t really care to have… I’m on a one-way street to being a welfare mother for the rest of eternity. Becoming what I hate.

That’s what I want most for Christmas.

No wonder I hate the holidays, huh?


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