Who do I write letters to? How do I sit on my own lap? Whose fake beard do I get to pull down? Who comes down my chimney? Who do I leave cookies for? If I do those things to myself, I will put in an asylum. It's not fair.
Year after year I look under my tree and only find dumb old stockings that my wife has knitted for me. No cookies, no Tinker Toys, no Barbies, nothing.