A/N: I recently discovered that my fear of Santa has been rekindled. This is a demonstration of that fear. It just goes to show what some guy in a fat suit and a beard can do to you. I now present to you an abomination that could only be called one thing:

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FIFTEEN YEARS OF ANICKAPHOBIA

A.K.A. The fear of Santa

Santa. A jolly, fat man who somehow warps the laws of physics in order to please millions of children worldwide. It always struck me as strange that no matter how bad you got, you would never actually end up with a rotten tomato, or a lump of coal, or a festering boil on the tip of your left nostril.

But no. Even if you somehow managed to accidentally strangle your older sister, or tie your cousin Ted to a chair and made him listen to the entire West Side Story soundtrack, or super glue your brother’s backside to the basement floor and then need to call in the fire department to get him off, you would still somehow end up with something great at the end of the year.

That’s another thing that annoyed me about Santa. If he sees you when you’re sleeping, knows when you’re awake, and can tell if you've been bad or good, why can’t he differentiate between a dirt bike and a deck of cards? Does he need glasses or something?

Something else that’s freaky about Santa: how can he see all these things? Is he psychic? Does he have a giant telescope? Does he hide cameras in our kitchens, our basements, our family rooms, our bedrooms? I personally came up with two theories: 1) He works for the CIA or 2) He works for the mafia. Either way, I do not feel safe.

One last thing: how does any child feel safe? To me, there is something wrong with an old fat guy who insists upon having little children sit in his lap and sneaks into your house through the chimney. I’m sure that there is some type of medication for such a thing, isn’t there? And if there isn’t, I’m pretty sure that there are places you can go and people you can talk to in order to control such an affliction.

What does all of this have to do with a fear of Santa?

It all started when I was all of three years old. I’d heard many tales of this being; a wonderful man who gave gifts to children, but only if they were good. If they were bad, they would get a rotten tomato, a lump of coal, or a festering boil on their left nostril.

This is where the fear began.

For one thing, how could I guarantee that I would be good? Everyone does something naughty every so often, don’t they? I mean, being perfect does not come naturally. In fact, anyone who is perfect is definitely up there with the people who can draw a perfect circle: also known as those who are considered clinically insane. So every December I would fear doing anything wrong, just in case Santa decided to do something such as fill my stocking with rotten tomatoes or leave boxes filled with coal.

The fear only grew when I learned that Santa could see all. No mortal can do such a thing; why should he be able to? Santa is a jolly fat man, not the result of some chemical experiment when he was a child, thus making him the immortal fatty, cursed to wander the earth with his reindeer of infinite wisdom and a too-small sack with a somehow endless supply of toys. So how does he do it? I recall asking that question multiple times and getting the same answer each time: “He just can, dear.” That wasn’t satisfying, it wasn’t at all interesting. Now, if I had gotten an answer such as, “Santa has a magical eye, sweetie,” or “Santa sends his elves out and the elves email him back every day,” or even “he installs a camera in your right eyeball when you’re born so he can monitor your progress throughout your life, honey”.

But no, I got the shitty “He just can, dear.”

The inevitable third thing that scares me about Santa: he’s a pedophile. There is something seriously wrong with an old man who wants children to sit in his lap. The last time I sat in Santa’s lap, I’m pretty sure that I could have filed a sexual harassment suit against him if I’d wanted to. I was ELEVEN.

Yes, Santa is a crazy scary guy. I’ve learned that, and even though I know that he’s just some old guy in a fat suit and a fake beard, the child in me still wants to run and hide in a corner and cry like there’s no tomorrow.

But it’s only been fifteen years. Surely I’ll be over my fear of Santa when I turn sixteen.

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A/N: No, that's not the actual term for a fear of Santa. My dad came up with it. Hehe...Merry Christmas, and a crappy new year!