Ever since people have discovered the crushing nonexistence of Santa Claus, they feel that they must take it upon themselves to personally and unequivocally kill the notion of an obese senior citizen slipping down chimneys to deliver presents to billions of children the world over in the span of roughly eight hours.

As an atheist who was raised in a Jewish household whose patriarch is a professor of psychology, I feel that this behavior is a petty form of self validation and schadenfreude in order to compensate for the crushing sadness that engulfed these newly converted infidels when they were children. There had to be some way to justify the sheer idiocy of sitting next to a fire pit with milk and cookies, waiting for a knick knack bearing home invader to appear. Ergo, many self proclaimed hilariously ingenious people both young and old have done a 180 and now mock the lunacy of the idea of Santa Claus in order to save face and scrounge a few laughs.

These arguments start out logically enough. How is it even possible, assuming that one manages to amass a team of flying reindeer, to fly all over the world and deliver presents in less than 24 hours? Of course, that's simply ridiculous. Even further, the idea that one man alone could do it is insane, it would require a team of at least 600! Oh absolutely, a veritable army of Santas. And then to think that a person of such girth could conceivably squeeze himself down the standard dimensions of a chimney, and the fact that millions of people don't have chimneys! Yes, the global housing spectrum is quite wide. Plus how would there be enough room in the sled for billions of presents, varying in size and shape? It does seem inconsistent with the laws of physics.

All of these assertions creep into yule time conversations, and what's remarkable is that each person who makes these arguments believes himself to be the first. It's painful really, seeing the bright eyed and expectant looks that appear on the visages of these would be comedians, anxiously waiting for a laugh, a congratulatory "I've never heard that one before! That's brilliant!" Of course I begrudgingly oblige, giving them an amused chuckle so as to let them save face but at the same time convey my impatience and annoyance with their banal holiday tidbits. It's astonishing that people view these supposedly comical tirades as necessary. Convincing people that Santa Claus is a figment of our imagination reinforced by scheming holiday card companies is much like trying to convince the public that Meryl Streep is a phenomenal actress. Yes, we know.

Therefore, I am instituting a reflexive moratorium on denunciations of Santa Claus. No longer shall I be subjected to unfunny and cliched rants from people desperate for an admiring audience. Instead, let's encourage people to put their persuasive skills to good use and convince people of the nonexistence of more important things, like Creationism. Not only is the idea of a world less than 6,000 years old laughable, but efforts put towards converting the philistines who profess such bullshit are far more appreciated this holiday season than denouncing Kris Kringle.

My lobby is much like a cross between a public park and the throne room on Mount Olympus. On the one hand, you are free to sit, people watch, and read to your hearts content, but should decide to sit in my throne, the two faux Victorian, gold and black upholstered slightly worn Pier 1 Imports loungers set up across from each other to serve as chair and footrest closest to the fireplace, I will unleash upon you a furious, unholy wrath in order to demonstrate my theocratic superiority and supreme dominance. I rule this lobby with an iron fist, commanding the circle of chairs that serve as both study space and respite from the constant stress of classes and exams. Though you may not know it, all who pas into the realm of the red fleurs de lys patterned carpet fall under my immediate jurisdiction.  I am supreme author of the Book of Lobby. Each day I decide who shall sit in a gold chair, who shall occupy the black with gold lattice detail, who shall have use of the recessed floor outlets, who shall perish by fire and who by water. My unspoken word is law, and those who fail to abide by it are sinners in the eyes of a vengeful French Major.

I have yet to determine the fate of the young girl sitting to my left. Foolishly, she took it upon herself to repose in my throne, and seeing it unfit in its current position, angle it away from the cast iron glass topped table. Yet her thievery knows no bounds. As if to mock me, she has gone so far as to affix her computer to an outlet (thankfully her ignorance extends far enough to cloak her eyes from the one beneath her chair, which I promptly put to use), ensuring her unbounded reign, not constricted by such petty obstacles as battery life. As I sit in an identical setup not four feet to the right, I cannot help but seethe with righteous anger and stinging embarrassment, the amble cushioning beneath my extremities doing little to mitigate the pain of exile.

I try to understand what might have possessed this girl to usurp my seat of power. Why, with a love seat, two couches and a plethora of other chairs at her disposal, did she chose my sacred altar? Surely she cannot be attuned to its innumerable secrets. Only a soul with my unparalleled cunning and distinct knack for creature comforts could have discovered the wonders of such a chair. With her stylishly clunky earphones so often preferred by the B- crowd, marginally outdated frames and colorless gray sweatshirt, this woman obviously lacks the necessary brainpower to exploit the myriad bounties that this lobby nook provides.

Yes, that is surely the case. Clearly she stumbled upon my sacred chamber of productivity and liberal elitist snark by accident, unaware of her grave error. Tapping away on a graphing calculator while simultaneously perusing a website of such little consequence that it fails to capture my interest, I give her a quelling glare of purest venom, the kind reserved for people who murder puppies and Newt Gingrich. Apparently unaffected, she continues her work, undoubtedly negating the effects of her worth ethic by dousing her ear drums in indie hipster tunes, where atonal is the new perfect pitch.

I resolve to keep a closer watch on the unassuming scholars who venture into my lobby. Should you be reading this, be forewarned that in the future, my mercy will not extend itself so generously, so tread carefully and know that you are here at the bequest of an all seeing, people watching French Major with no qualms in outting you in a semi-anonymous fashion. Save face, save my space.