Santa

I'm set and ready and resigned. It'll be some other day, some other someone. Right now, pushing it is useless, and I don't even feel like pushing it anyway. Because all this time I've put my strength into someone else, and right now on Christmas Eve I'm putting it into my own self, which may be getting older and nuttier. I still think angels are cute when all my boys think they're psychos dressed in white, wings and tinsel for a couple of hours. I know that I provide them with a whole lot of entertainment when they're all waiting for my word 'cute' and for the little silent tear that inevitably will make its way into my very well plastered laughter lines. I still dream of a White Christmas, I still think Santa doesn't forget the important ones, although judging by his age he might very well have dementia now. But who am I to judge Santa. He must have been one hell of a good looking man when he was younger. And I like older men anyway, but perhaps not as old as Santa although Cialis would help him no end. Maybe Santa has been OD-ing on Cialis that's why he's still so perky at such an unearthly hour. And maybe he carries a sackful of our baggage to help us. Santa must be a very good man. Cialis doesn't make a man, it makes us, us girl's lives that much better. Oh and he must have so much experience too. He's also probably been a peeping-tom without wanting to be. Who knows how many chimneys he's gone down, only to find that he'd better tread quietly because some people might find Christmas Eve an exciting time to copulate. So he's probably been there, done that and seen it all. I wonder if Santa has got rid of his eyeglasses yet, I'd put him in immediately for corrective laser eye surgery with compliments if he hasn't. I mean Santa is a good excuse in himself to skip all the queue in Arani Issa. And since Santa is a good man, then he deserves it.