Eight years ago, I was spending my second Christmas in the United States with my parents, uncle, aunt and cousin. We had driven off to a nearby Denny’s at around midnight, in order to avoid awkward confrontations with Santa Claus when he arrives to deliver our presents. Prior to that day, my cousin and I had made extra special preparations. We went scouting for potential presents everywhere: from store windows to toy websites, and made elaborate wishlists decorated with colored markers and glitter glue.
And lo and behold, by the time we had gotten home, the cookies and milk on the table were gone and both of us had received the items we had wanted, along with practically unreadable letters from the man himself. I was particularly thrilled with the book I had received: my Art teacher had introduced me to the wonderful world of the Renaissance and the mysterious Mona Lisa just months before Christmas, and succeeded in her mission to convert me into a bonafide member of the Leonardo da Vinci fan club.
Since then, I had strived to absorb every bit of knowledge about my newfound spirit animal there was, and my newly acquired piece of lit helped me become one step closer to my goal. I read it until one of my eyes had involuntarily shut from fatigue and I had to go to bed. But not without this ridiculously huge smile on my face. #NURDALURT
That Christmas, I had stopped putting up my stocking and setting cookies and milk on the table.
Three years ago, I had stopped putting effort in designing my own wishlist: instead, I just pointed out what I wanted to my parents once I saw it.
And a year ago, it even came to a point where I started accompanying my parents in buying their Christmas gifts for me. (I did the same thing this Christmas – three cheers for me)
Adios, Angel x