It’s 8pm on a Saturday, and I'm writing to a man in whom I have no faith. Yet still I write because of some uncontrollable naïveté swelling in my belly like an alien child in my human womb. Growing. And kicking. And needing to be released. And so I write.

Here's the thing, Santa.

You and I don't have much in common. We don't see eye to eye. But really, does anyone see eye to eye? Or are we all just looking in different directions, missing eye contact by fractions of inches, walking around looking, never really seeing, and missing the point of this whole game?

Is it even a game?

And if so, is it a game I want to play?

Then again, maybe the game is playing us.

You see where I'm going with this.

Here's my list:

1. A painting of a sparrow perched on a human skeleton.

2-25. Life experience.

26. The wedding dresses of 1,000 women who never followed through.

Christmas is bullshit.

Love,
Fiona