An Open Letter from the Easter Bunny

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I have to tell you, Easter is never an easy time of the year for me; to say the least.

For almost three months before it, I am in a state of constant tension and anxiety. I also suffer from panic attacks all year round. That doesn’t prevent me from doing my job to the best of my abilities, though. I am a prudent person who believes in being prepared, which is why I usually start training over six months before Easter day – the usual, push ups, sit ups, running, etc. But nothing truly prepares you for it. For me, the atmosphere of Easter is one of war. Few people know this, but I also suffer from PTSD. Do you think it’s been easy managing so many expectations every year for almost half a century?

I am the Easter Bunny.

Easter orders usually start piling up when people return from their summer holidays. So by the end of August, I already have stacks of papers in my office this high. <points at the ceiling>

And from that point on, the stacks just keep getting bigger and bigger. And bigger, and bigger, and you have a feeling they will never diminish, no matter what you do. I’d like to see you cope with that. My therapist says it’s my innate desire to please that’s the cause of all the neuroses that plague me.

People always ask me what the very worst thing about Easter is.

Is it the planning, the management of my workers and present-packers, the endless walks and swims from Berlin to New York to Vancouver and back again in a single night? They are all taxing, sure, but they’re not the worst.

I absolutely, from the bottom of my heart, hate entering people’s houses at night.

Was cat burglar really in my job description?

Couldn’t they outsource this kind of thing? It’s this: people from my list, my delivery list, usually live within four walls. And at night, their doors are usually locked. I’ve spent years and years at community college learning to pick this lock and that, learning to dismantle this security mechanism and that, learning to bypass alarms and dogs and light sleepers. You’d think there’d be a scholarship involved, right? <shakes head> I’m still paying off my college debt. And I studied in Canada, I’ll have you know, not the US.

The years and years of breaking into people’s homes to leave them presents has taken its toll. I cannot sleep – I wake up covered in sweat, gasping for air over ten, fifteen, twenty times each night. I have difficulties maintaining relationships with other people. Or rabbits, for that matter. I’ve already been married twenty six times.

Take Santa, for example.

We used to be the closest of friends, him and me, somewhere until the beginnings of World War I. You know, since he’d only been around for just under a century at that point, he was very eager. He wanted to do his job to the best of his abilities. And let me tell you, I was already exhausted, for I’d been working for almost 250 years by then. 250 Easters is a lot of lugging presents around, let me tell you.

So we soon started drifting apart. Also, I was a little annoyed by the fact that, despite my being in the business a lot longer than him, he soon became a much more popular figure than I was. It’s human to feel this way, no? Santa Claus never tried to rekindle our friendship, and neither did I. Frankly, I think it’s that wife of his that had a lot to do with all this business. Bloody Yoko.

Okay, back on topic. As far as entering people’s houses goes, you cannot begin to imagine all the things I’ve seen and experienced in my years on the job. You see this? This is not a scar from running through a rosebush, no; this is a shotgun pellet I got for all my troubles from a farmer down in Alabama last year. And this? A woman in Brixton tried to stab me. She said I reminded her of her ex-husband.

It is a very depressing time. As days go by and Easter inches ever so closer, I gradually start retreating into my study. By mid-April, I only leave my room to go the bathroom. I have food brought in. It’s a terrible, terrible time… <stares off into the distance>

And so, if your adrenaline levels are so high for so long a time, you plummet into an even deeper pit of despair when it’s all over. So let me tell you, I could be doing something else for £34,000 a year. I sure could.

You know what I also don’t like? I despise the fact that, throughout the world, they’ve turned my body and my person into a chocolate figure. And the fact that I don’t collect any royalties from all these chocolate companies is not the major issue here, but rather the… it’s the morbidity of the whole situation.

Imagine if your body, and very realistically, if I may add, was suddenly turned into a chocolate figurine and eaten by people all over the world. It’s sick to say the least, innit?

Anyway. <takes another puff of his Marlboro Red>

I would love to live a quiet and peaceful life. I hope to retire soon. I’m 335 years old. My body is bruised, cut, violated by the years and years of traversing hundreds of thousands of miles on foot. My mind and soul are damaged beyond repair, I’m afraid. But despite the low pay and the brutal nature of the job, I I’ll miss it. <puffs on his cigarette> I like to think I made a change, you know? It’s the old adage: If I made a positive difference in the life of at least one person, my life has not been in vain.

I like to think that. <stares off into the distance. prolonged silence.>

I’m sorry, but this interview is over. Thank you for taking the time to come out here, but now I need my rest. Olivia will see you out. Goodbye.

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Florence Hazel is a full-time writer with a Masters in English and Sociology. Florence believes that if a single person benefits in some way from her writing, be it physically, emotionally, mentally, or any other kind of –ally, her job was a job well done. She made it her goal to sell happiness and well-being as much as she does flowers and cards. To quote the song Florence starts obsessively humming when words get muddled at the end of an 8-hour workday, “One, two, three, my writing opts for clarity!”
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