Saturday, July 11, 2009

An open letter to: Christ, Jesus H.

Dear Jesus, or God, as it may be,

I would never think to question your all-knowing infinite wisdom and your ultimate guidance for a mere mortal’s - my own - life. I have never questioned your plan, in all your knowingness and power, to make my life as hilarious as possible. And I have never expressed anger or even dismay at some of the seriously effed shizzle you tend to send my way on a daily basis. Like my FAIDS cat, who just yesterday ate my leftover no-name kraft dinner while I wasn’t looking and then later vomited whole macaroni noodles onto my bed. I can laugh at this.

But if you could please, for the love of FUCK, stop sending flash rainstorms unto me every time I decide to leave the goddamn house, rainstorms that only last as long as I must walk – umbrella’less, because you lure me outside with sunshine, you coy little saviour – to my destination, and then leave me literally drenched, hair plastered to my scalp, clothes stuck to my malnourished body, in the middle of a GODDAMN STARBUCKS FOR THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, I would really appreciate it.

I get it, Jesus. I really do. I was dumped and now it’s hilarious to rain on me every time I leave the house. You really enjoy pathetic fallacy. So do I. Maybe you took English Lit in undergrad, too.

But every good artist knows when to quit, Jesus. And your rain shtick has become predictable. And I swear to…you…I am going to really lose it if I dart into the starbucks like a drowned rat one more time, wipe the stream of water out of my eyes, and see the sun come out.

While I have you on the line, please don’t send me another FAIDS cat. Or gynecologist boyfriend.

And please don’t strike me with lightening on the walk home.

In the name of gin, I pray. Amen.


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