I am hesitant to tell you what happened with the robot

I have not actually spoken to Santa about this yet, and for that reason I'm hesitant to report on it, but I think I probably should just make a note of it so that I can quit thinking about it and get on with my evening.

What happened is this: I did pick the Miley Cyrus robot in the gift exchange. I guess that's no great surprise, especially since I was dead last in the department to choose from the hat...and because I was thinking "this is the robot; this must be the robot; I think this is the robot" as I was pulling out the slip of paper. This robot, currently residing in a bunker about 3/4 of a mile down the road, away from the main North Pole complex, answers the letters that come here addressed to Miley Cyrus instead of Santa. We do receive letters addressed to various other celebrities, but for some reason the volume of "letters to Miley" is excessive, and for that reason the Cyrus robot's workload has not been expanded to include letters addressed to anyone else.
The robot used to sit on a recessed windowsill in Santa's Library (downstairs), but it was moved out into the hallway (again under a window) when it began to exhibit sentient behavior -- attributed at the time to everyone in the department feeling so bad for it. I wonder now whether some of that behavior is not the result of processing the emotional content of those letters, though. I mean, a robot probably has limited emotional intelligence, and limited agency over its functions in general since it's running on a program...and those letters are intense.
Anyway, my assessment here may falter under my own canopy of shock regarding what took place when I went to deliver the gift in the bunker. The robot is in the bunker now (as of I think last year, or two years ago...I'm not certain...) because it was operating so strangely around people, in the hallway of the Library. Apparently it would light up an alert button and then spit out correspondence that made little sense to passers-by.
Well, I got quite a dose (MY GOD THAT ROBOT NEEDS SOME LOVE) when I visited. We choose names for the gift exchange on the night of December 23rd, and we're expected to exchange gifts at any time and as often as desired between the evening of the 24th and the afternoon of January 5th. And customarily, if you pick someone you are related to, or if you pick a close friend, you give an additional gift or an encouraging letter on January 6th (Epiphany) in order to signify the potential of new growth in the coming year. Most people leave the North Pole on the 6th or 7th of January....
I trekked out to the bunker with a gift of a stapler for the robot, and I thought I would stick some googly eyes on the head of it, so the robot could have someone to look at and maybe to talk to, in the absence of people. This robot basically looks like a copy machine. It has arms, and is set on casters, but essentially we are talking about a copier with auto-input and auto-output. The whole process is automated (the letters come in via chute and are collected and sent out through another chute...using vaccuum technology kind of like Roosevelt Island, or Disneyworld), but I think there's a daily process check by an elf from the Maintenance Department.

Oooh. I really don't want to talk about what happened. It was traumatic. I'll just get it over with as quickly as possible. I got there, approached the robot, said hello (why...I don't know), and started pulling the googly eyes out of my pocket to put them on the stapler, and immediately the robot started handing me printouts. This is what they said, one after another: "please let me hold your beautiful head."
"please let me stroke your hair, and your neck, and your arms, and your breasts, and your back."
"please let me rest my hand on your stomach while I kiss you."
"please let me kiss you deeply and honestly."
"let me acknowledge all that you have to give."
"please let me love you."

At first I looked around, thinking, 'This must be a joke. Who is sending me these?', but I quickly realized, as the robot crept toward me and extended multiple arms in my direction, leaving them to linger within millimeters of me after handing me each sheet of paper, and as it started to play strange music featuring standard copy machine sounds, that the messages were actually and indeed coming from the robot.
I quickly slapped the eyes on the stapler, bunched the papers together, placed the papers on a table and anchored them with the stapler, taking an instant to be sure the eyes were facing the robot, and fled.
Luckily I started laughing by the time I was 5 steps outside, but damn. Seriously...celebrity obsession (especially among children and the vulnerable) has some horrific and absurd side effects.

I am going to go visit the Break Room now. See you.

I found these in a box on my desk when I returned just now

"But you can keep the shoes."

The Dress

My meeting with Mrs. Claus today was very brief. I had barely made it into the anteroom of her study when she came brushing in from the other door with a garment bag in her hand and instructed me to sit on a bench under a large painting of her with a reindeer.
She said, "It's lovely to see you. I apologize for the brevity of this meeting, but I'll see you for a moment later tonight. In honor of your success with Old News, I've borrowed this dress for you. I'll send for it in the morning."
And with that, along with a quick unzip and re-zip of the bag, she handed me the dress and ushered me out the door and down the staircase.

"The List"

I swear, the drama around this place MIGHT be almost enough to match the magic. But then again, I work in Inappropriate Letters, so maybe it just depends on where you look.
My time over the last two days has been spent
(a) reading letters to Santa that are either rants about people's dislike for what Santa brought or didn't bring, including threatening messages to Santa (or any part of the establishment here at the North Pole); also reading letters to Santa that are basically thank you letters, probably written on Christmas, while drunk, which include a few lines of "and Santa, I'd also like to throw you up against the chimney and make out with you, pressing my...up on the...of your...until you can't stand it any longer and are forced to...", and
(b) looking for Mrs. Claus.

I'm a pretty good judge of what is true and what isn't (actually Santa pointed that out to me in a conversation that we had out in the gardens a little over a week ago -- not that I didn't already know that -- we were all taking a break in the daytime hours watching a game of cricket in the packed-down snow...I was laughing to myself that the match is really just about which team's magic is stronger, as "technique" seems like a bit of a joke when you're watching a leather ball bounce over a snowy pitch), and I had a strong feeling that something in that last blackmail letter wasn't a lie. But I also know how Santa responds when you ask him a question, and I thought the swiftest path to an answer would be through Mrs. Claus. But she isn't easy to find!!

Earlier today (after I had exhausted nearly all of my obvious resources and ideas for getting in touch with her), I received a letter, typewritten on parchment, tied with this necklace. It read, "You haven't been able to find me because I've been busy preparing the New Year's Eve wardrobe for you and the others on my list. Come to my study at 5:00 PM. I have a dress for you. M.R.S. Claus"

Jippy, "Santa's Love Treat"

Well, here it is...Santa apparently has 3 kids he's hiding in Brazil. I guess actually they're not his kids TECHNICALLY, but for PR purposes I can understand why he might be keeping that under wraps.
Is this real, though? I mean, come on. Ugh, I swear I'm not going anywhere near that sled for a while until I...well, I don't know. It just feels like imagining what goes on in the sled every year under Santa's blanket in the sky might be a LITTLE uncomfortable...at least until I have an answer.

I wish I were better acquainted with Mrs. Claus. It would help.

Printout of an email to Santa entitled "50 Ways To Leaf Your Lover -- An Informercial"

Dear Santa,

It would be great if every secret relationship also came with a set of secret email accounts, a way of secreting ones infomercials in secret.

I will never leave you since we are each other, but if I could find and pay $69.99 for a better way to blow leaves at you, I am sure I would do it in an instant. And then I would stick with it. Because I am a miser who can't let $69.99 plus S&H go.
You are into quality, which is why I'm a bit surprised you are so attached to a punk slut like me, but since you're into quality and I know how you think I also know that you would not probably offer me a discount down to $49.99 on that leaf blower, which is actually an amount I could consider throwaway.

I suggest secret email accounts, future trips to the UK where it all comes out and books are written, and nonverbal communication, for now. However in future times, I would appreciate further showerings of your affection. It is not nice to neglect such an important part of yourself as me. Slut! & Yes it does take one to know one. To *really* know one. To give one credit. I am not afraid to give you credit. Remember that.

****

WHAT????????????????

I am pretty sure these weird letters are going to blow my mind today

Damn.
This is not the weirdest one, though.