Father Christmas came and slipped through the cracks of my poorly constructed home so quickly and quietly that I hardly marked the date.
I suppose it's my fault for spending so much time listening to angsty drums and guitars scream my name that I can no longer hear his voice in the tear of wrapping paper and Mr. Crosby's tunes.
But I caught a glimpse, between the blinking of red and white on my tree, when my mother smiled as I opened my new suede shoes.
He's out there, hiding, that *******: old man Christmas. Hiding and trying to make me change, make me surrender my joy to the jaded state of adulthood.