I usually only write one letter to an imaginary figure per year, but since Santa Claus has already proven that he is illiterate and, thus, incapable of writing back, I figured I'd write a letter to you. In short, I'd like to state that your aim clearly sucks and that you need to go back to Artemis, Pan, Robin Hood, Rambo Jesus, or whomever the Hell you took archery lessons from, because I sat at home by myself for Valentine's Day. I got nothing. Just a few texts from some girls who I know who were kind enough to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. Sure, I appreciate their sentiment, but let's face it: they were rubbing it in. While they were off being swept off their feet by some dude who was only interested in a holiday screw, I was screwed by being relegated to watching the women's USA hockey team kick the crap out of China in a Winter Olympics that I am otherwise uninterested in.
Perhaps you're too busy fluttering around on those far-too-retardedly-small wings of yours to be bothered to take a proper aim and make a proper release. I don't know. All I know is that you suck. The only chocolate I had was some dried out M&Ms from the bottom of a cookie jar, and the only flowers I saw were dead because someone up there in your fake-ass pantheon decided to make it snow in the American Southeast and kill all the flora.
Did Saint Valentine and Saint Patrick switch days this year? Because pretty much everyone I know was rather drunk... you guys saving the one-night stands for March or what? How about some fucking lucky charms, asshole?
If I ever see you floating about, rest assured I'm gonna take a shot at you. And I ain't gonna miss. I hope your Hallmark royalties run out and you die a slow painful death from starvation. Prick.