Thanks for making a good Christmas for me. I know you worked hard on it, and it was really sweet. I thought I'd hate this time of year, and I kind of did, but you made it have good parts. Really good parts, I mean, that made up for all the parts where I wanted to make a den of blankets under my bed and see you suckers come spring.
I was pretty sure Santa didn't exist before the accident, but I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want to ruin it for my sister. Then after I was a coyote for eight years, it never came up again, and I guess I sort of assumed that he was an actual thing since there was already so much magic in the world. I had been waffling about saying anything about it all December because it felt like it was this big joke that I wasn't in on, and because I didn't like thinking about Christmas things since the family I knew best is either dead or preferred me being missing to found. But you guys wrapped presents for me. I can't imagine anything more boring. You did that for me. Thank you so much; I definitely would have kept believing in Santa if it wasn't for the fact that the presents all smelled like you guys.
It was really kind, and I don't really know who all was in on it, but thank you. I didn't hate Christmas nearly as much as I thought I would.
And it's really good to know that some old fart isn't going to know when I'm sleeping.