Like any other kid, I believed that Santa would actually step foot in my house and drink the cup of milk with the box of Chips Ahoy that I would add on the side. On one occasion, I even ordered a box of pepperoni pizza just to make sure that he would be content with my offerings and would have a reason to spoil me with presents.
The clock struck nine and my mother forced me to go to bed—and by force, I mean she literally dragged me to bed. As the obstinate kid that I was, I made pretenses, such as going to the bathroom to brush my teeth, returning to bathroom because I forgot to floss, and complaining from a stomach ache. After having reached succession with all my “reasons,” luckily my mother fell asleep, leaving me the freedom to stay awake.
That same night, I made sure that my house was as clean as the White House, or close to it. I somewhat swept the floor, towed all my toy cars to the toy district located inside my closet, and wiped all the mirrors in my house just in case Santa wanted to brush his white beard or fix his hat. Once I checked that everything was in its place, I went to bed, dragged my Walkman with me, and turned my headphones up.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Yes, I know, all that hard work for nothing. I woke up the next morning to find presents and the box of pizza still there with a couple slices missing. I was angry and sad, of course. I guess I will never see Santa.
Here’s a little advice for you children out there: before you waste all your piggy bank money on food you hope pleases Santa, I suggest you consult it with you parents; and if you hope to see Santa visit your home someday, I wish you luck… lots of it.