It's true that attempting to write about something you don't know enough about or nothing at all can be challenging. So most of us steer clear of this particular subject at hand.

The unknown has always been scary, like looking into the abyss and never knowing what to expect. What's waiting once you reach the bottom?

It's a normal reaction; it's a human reaction. We're not expected to know everything about every single subject that exists (science, music, art, sports, technology, you name it). That's the beauty of it, isn't it—to be able to learn something new, to feed your thirst for knowledge, or just simple curiosity.

So it's okay not to know or understand everything. At the end of the day, we can only process so much data before we overload or steam starts coming out of our ears.

However, if you truly want to test yourself and your ability to write about a subject you're not knowledgeable about, then you can always do a little research.

Thankfully, there's Google, and Google knows it all, right? It knows you don't know what you don't know.

There are books, as archaic as that might seem when there's this wonderful thing called the Internet, but it can't hurt to check, just in case.

In conclusion, with a little effort, you can write about anything you want. It depends on whether you're interested enough to spend more time on the given subject.

Pat a green clover,

A rainbow will show up.

Do a little jig, and

You just might be in luck!

According to a legend

As old as time itself:

Brew some potato beer—

A blessing you'll get!

The color of the setting sun swirling in your eyes makes me feel like I'm catching a glimpse of a truly marvelous sight.

I'm probably not the only one caught under the spell your eyes cast. I know how your type operates—never committing, always wandering. One day there's her, the next someone else.

Your heart belongs to the thrill of the chase—to the high you can't reach by tying yourself down.

Like a free spirit, you move on, never looking back, living without regrets.

A trail of broken hearts follows you, shards like rose petals.

"You knew how I was from the start. I never hid that part of me, and I never gave you hope for something more," is what you say to every girl in the end.

And like every story goes, they'd cry, beg, and plead for you to stay with them and never leave. They'd beg for you to love them.

"I'm sorry," is all they'd get, the words spoken so softly, so sorrowfully.

Cruel to be kind, or kind to be cruel? I can't pick either one since I'm not sure which one would be less painful.

I wish you'd been easy to hate. I wish I could've been indifferent to you.

But beggars can't be choosers, right?

Because in the end, the joke's on us, who can't resist you and your sunset eyes.

No "good mornings" or "goodnights."

There weren't any of those to begin with.

No more wondering, "Is he thinking of us?"

No more wishing that he'd turn my way and look at me, see through me.

No more daydreams of passionate declarations and affection shared—a crash course in reality is all I've got so far.

Sweet longing turns bitter real fast.

The future is still being held back by the chains of the past.

Indifference is the BFF you need in your life.

Loneliness isn't that hard to bear once you come to terms with it.

No more. I'll end it with just that—no more.

I'm allergic to love.

Any other kind is more than enough.

That doesn't mean I'm the casual type, 'cause I've been fine so far.

Don't bore me with frivolous gifts; I can easily buy them myself.

Don't buy me chocolate; though I enjoy it, my heart won't be swayed by its richness.

Money is the paper we all need in order to survive, but unfortunately, it controls everything around us.

I'm no gold digger, despite being "a woman."

Oh, and please don't send me flowers; they'd just wilt away in vain.

Getting me to love you, future lover of mine, seems impossible so far, right?

Well, it is, 'cause, as I've said before:

I'm allergic to love.

Or, to be more precise, love is allergic to me.

"We're sorry...," "We regret to inform you that..." and on and on it goes.

I guess you grow numb with experience; it's like an occupational hazard.

Professional rejectee—that's what I'll call myself.

I don't need to be a psychic to know how it's all going to play out.

It's annoying at this point in my life.

It'll be surprising if I can still manage to be surprised when rejection comes knocking.

A professional rejectee shouldn't be surprised by rejection.

Turn your back and walk away as

The waves caress the sand.

Your footsteps get lost in the sea foam.

I can't trace them back.

The water washes away

The sins of yesterday, but

It can't erase the bitter

Memories of today.

Our love won't be reborn out of the sea; It'll stay lost among the waves of longing.

"Open up, old man! I'm freezing my nuts here! Damn snow!" The loud banging woke up Santa, who came in late last night. Add in a hangover, and you get the picture.

Santa stood up from his comfy and warm bed, grumbling under his breath (more like cursing his visitor). Who the hell would knock at his door at... 7 AM? on Christmas of all days.

Santa dragged himself towards the door, the banging getting progressively more loud and aggressive.

Someone needs to cool down a bit. Oh, wait, they're kind of doing that.

Santa finally opens the door, and, lo and behold, Ebenezer Scrooge's forever frowning face is what greets him!

Merry Christmas, indeed.

"Eb, old friend, long time no see! Come in, come in," Santa ushers the man inside, preparing mentally for what is probably going to be the most exhausting visit he's had in a long time.

Santa hoped that his helpers didn't take all of the booze home. He's going to need it if he wants to survive the surly man.

They sit down by the fire. Scrooge sighs gratefully (rejoice, rejoice!) as the warmth works its way through his freezing body.

Are bitter, cold-hearted people even capable of feeling cold? Isn't that kind of a given for them?

Winter is winning. Stranger things have happened.

In fact, one such strange thing is happening right now.

Scrooge is smiling with content.

Scrooge. Is. Smiling.

Santa stares in disbelief.

He stares some more.

Santa thinks he's either still hungover or in some kind of twilight zone. Because there is no possible way that this is real.

Scrooge notices that it's too quiet. He opens his eyes and sees Santa just staring at him, not moving a single muscle.

"What's the matter? You haven't decided to kick the bucket yet, have you? Snap out of it, man!"

Santa blinks at the sound of the man's voice and snaps out of his daze.

"Ah, sorry there, Eb. I haven't fully woken up yet. Would you like something to eat or drink?" Santa remembers being somewhat of a host.

But no earthly laws or customs apply to a man such as Scrooge, so it's not as if he's insulting the other man by forgetting his manners.

"Coffee is fine. I already ate before I came here. I'd rather drink something stronger than coffee, but, as you well know, I now have people who...care for my health."

"Are you saying you don't want to worry them?" Santa grins at the scowling man.

"Just shut up and make the damn coffee."

Santa raises his hands in mock surrender and turns to the cupboards.

A few moments later...

Santa and Scrooge are just sitting around the crackling fire, sipping their coffee, when Scrooge decides to break the silence.

"Alright, now that I'm warm and have some coffee in my system, I'll tell you why I'm here. I'm here to discuss the lack of my Christmas present."

Well, that was unexpected. Santa almost choked on his coffee.

It wouldn't do well for you to die, Santa. Think of all of the children that are awaiting their presents every year.

Think of all the cookies that might go to waste.

And, most importantly, think of your alcohol stash. Those elves can drink you under the table; imagine leaving all of the liquor to them because you couldn't swallow your coffee properly.

This is a historical moment, old man. Pull yourself together!

Scrooge is actually complaining about the lack of his Christmas present?!

Nothing is ever simple with this man, is it?

Santa sighs quietly before replying, "The lack of your Christmas present? I thought you didn't want any."

Scrooge is glaring at the confused Santa, trying to burn a hole through him.

Murder doesn't work that way, sir. Not in this story at least.

"Well, aren't you a lousy author? I should've had some sort of superpower by now! After all that bullcrap I went through in my original story, it's only fair!" Scrooge yells at the author.

Uhm, excuse me, but aren't you supposed to take it up with Santa? You know, no present for you under the Christmas tree and all that? You can argue with the author some other time.

"Tch, whatever. I'll deal with you later. Now, Santa, I'm a reformed man. I've been kind to my employees (yes, I have more than one); I've been nicer to them and to other people. I'm all flowers and rainbows. I even adopted a puppy. So why, after those three lunatics invaded my privacy, haven't I gotten anything this year? Am I still on that "naughty" list of yours?"

A grown man asks if he's on the "naughty" list. It happened, yeah.

Where's that whiskey again? Santa's going to need it. It won't help his incoming headache, but it'll at least help him stay (somewhat) sane.

The author agrees. The author also suggests not giving Scrooge any alcohol. It might make things even worse.

A sober Scrooge is already a handful; imagine a drunk one (or better yet, don't).

And just then, Santa remembers. He's definitely screwed.

Ignorance is bliss.

"Well, old man? Care to explain, or do I have to take drastic measures?"

You being here, in Santa's cottage, the first thing in the morning on Christmas is already drastic enough, Scrooge.

"You again! Shut your trap and wait for your turn! It was you who had made me come see this old fart on Christmas in the first place!" Scrooge barks at the poor author.

The author can't confirm or deny it. Why is it always the author's fault?

"If you actually had some decent ideas for the stories you write, you wouldn't be in this kind of mess right now, would you?" Scrooge asks.

The author liked you more when you were a selfish, stingy, old bastard.

Let's get back to Santa, shall we?

He remembered the reason why Scrooge didn't get his present.

"Uh, sorry, Eb, you see, I kind of... forgot to review my "naughty or nice" list this year! You were never on any of those, so..." Santa trails off, knowing that Scrooge could figure out the rest.

What happens after this reveal is up to you, dear reader.

Merry Christmas! <3