When I was a small child, my parents intentionally mislead my still-forming gray matter into believing a preposterous untruth. They informed me — knowing deep down all along what they were saying was false — that a special kind of being was always watching over me, always with me, and taking assiduous interest in my little life. He apparently lived in a clean, white, distant place and was monitoring my moral behavior with omniscient perspicuity. This man was not bound by normal earthly physics, and could disregard them at will. He was immensely powerful and omnipresent. And this man would reward moral behavior handsomely, while at the same time punishing the immoral with bituminous rock capable of intense, fiery burning. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized I’d been defrauded. But I held no malice towards my parents for perpetuating this metaphysical myth. They knew no better, because their own parents had similarly defrauded them, when they were themselves children. And on and on. For no reason, other than the nonsense got started in the past, and inertia, and the human propensity toward the preternatural. But in fact, Santa Claus does not exist.