A Letter to Santa: A Request for My Sanity

Antonio Ieranò

Security, Data Protection, Privacy. Comments are on my own unique responsibility 🙂

December 23, 2024

Dear Santa,

Let’s skip the niceties. I know you’re busy and that Rudolph’s union just called for another strike. I’ll be quick: this year, I’m not asking for gifts for the world. Nope. The world can fend for itself. I’m asking for me. Because let’s face it, if I don’t get some peace of mind soon, I’m going to start writing letters to the Easter Bunny instead.

What I need, dear Santa, is the gift of tranquility—and you’re the only one with the sleigh-power to deliver it. Forget toys, gadgets, or fancy chocolates. What I want is something far more meaningful: the ability to wake up every morning without a rage headache caused by the following delightful specimens of humanity.

1. The No-Vaxxers, Flat-Earthers, and Conspiracy Theorists

Ah, this group. The holy trinity of nonsense. They’ve turned denial into an art form, haven’t they? Whether it’s vaccines, the shape of the Earth, or the idea that pigeons are government drones, these folks just can’t stop reinventing reality.

Santa, I don’t want to be greedy, but could you gift them a small dose of reason? Just enough to make them stop forwarding those “Bill Gates is microchipping us” emails. And maybe—just maybe—give them the wisdom to understand that science isn’t a conspiracy, and the Earth has been round for a while now.

If that’s too much, I’ll settle for noise-cancelling headphones so I don’t have to listen to their TED Talks on why gravity is fake.

2. The “I Have Nothing to Hide” Privacy Sceptics

You know these people. “Why should I care about privacy?” they say. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Well, Santa, they also have nothing to protect—except, perhaps, their dignity, which they’re handing out like free samples at a supermarket.

Here’s an idea: send them a year’s subscription to Big Brother Weekly, complete with live updates of their own browsing history. Or maybe just wrap up a friendly reminder that “nothing to hide” doesn’t mean “please spy on me.”

And for my sanity, Santa, could you send me a button that mutes them instantly? I’d use it sparingly. Probably.

3. The “It Won’t Happen to Me” Crowd

“Oh, I don’t need to worry about cybersecurity,” they say. “Why would anyone hack me?” These are the same people who leave their car doors unlocked because “my neighborhood is safe.” Santa, give them the gift of foresight—or, barring that, a gentle taste of reality.

I’m not saying you should let their Netflix account get hacked and filled with reality TV shows about mole rats. But if it were to happen, I wouldn’t complain.

4. The “I Have More Important Things to Do” Types

These multitasking marvels are too busy juggling their spreadsheets, Pilates classes, and cat videos to bother with something as trivial as online safety. “I’ll update my software later,” they say. Later, Santa. Always later.

Could you gift them a little nudge—something like an unexpected system crash when they’re halfway through their annual report? Nothing catastrophic, just a friendly reminder that their digital life needs attention too.

A Final Note

Santa, I know this is a lot to ask. You’ve got elves to manage, cookies to eat, and a sleigh that probably needs some serious cybersecurity upgrades. (Let’s not pretend the Grinch isn’t out there trying to hack your Naughty/Nice list.)

But if you could help with these requests, you’d be saving more than just my holiday spirit. You’d be saving my sanity.

Because all I want for Christmas is a little peace of mind—and maybe the chance to enjoy a cup of tea without someone telling me the Earth is flat, privacy doesn’t matter, or that “hackers” are stealing my memes.

Yours sincerely, Someone who just wants to survive another year without deleting all their social media accounts out of sheer frustration.

P.S. If you’ve got any spare coal, feel free to drop it off with the spam emailers, social media influencers who fake giveaways, and anyone who still uses “password” as their password.