I have some serious contempt against you tonight, Santa. You big, red punk. I might hate you. I may or may not be planning your coming out party. Or at least orchestrating an elite plan to blow your stupid cover.

This is your very last year to take all the credit while I look like the mean mom who always says no. You just swoop in and save the day and leave a mess of cookies – that I decorated, mind you.

I’ve had just about enough of this. More than enough.

You might notice that I switched a few gift tags. The socks, toothbrushes, and underwear are from you, you little jerk.

I’m giving them the digital gaming systems. So there.

“From: Mommy. xoxoxo.”

I’ve done this to light the path to your exit, that they will like you just a bit less by the end of the day tomorrow.

I’m tired of paving the way, shelling out cash, making miracles happen, while you remain ever elusive. I’ll do every single one of those things for the sweet boys who will cheer and fall all over one another with boisterous joy in the morning.

But not for you, Santa. Not. For. You.

So, live it up, Santa. Your days are numbered around here.

Merry Christmas and a Happy Screw You.

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