This is an untitled story. It has no feelings of entitlement when it comes to being given a title. Why? Because it’s a humble story with humble expectations.
What’s in a name anyway? Titles are for marketers and sponsors who usually don’t care to read what’s written beneath said titles. They care only for numbers to crunch, property to own, and supermodels to breed. It’s all about empire building, baby!
But the story doesn’t want to be exploited by mean old moneybags. That’s why it hides behind a nonexistent title, hoping that they won’t notice it and leave it alone.
Poor Santa. Year after year he thinks of everyone else but no one thinks of him. He delivers gifts by the sack load to a gazillion billion entitled ingrates, and do they thank him? Hell, no! If someone catches him shimmying down their chimney on Christmas Eve, they punch him in the mouth and have him arrested!
He doesn’t even get given Christmas cards. Not a single one. Only an angry letter from some guy named Tony. No wonder Santa doesn’t feel loved. No wonder he wants to quit being Santa. But it’s okay, Santa, we still love you. There’s always next year.
I took lessons of humility
from the worn roadside stones.
Nothing can teach civility
so well as the shattered bones.
That’s why my posture is queenly
and my manners are aesthetic. Your sense of beauty knows so keenly when reality is prosthetic.