A letter to God (or, whatever It is, if It actually exists…)


I’d like to start off with a disclaimer. I’m crazy. I can prove it, too. Right now, I’m sitting here, frantically writing, after a frenzied shower conversation with said Deity, in mismatched flip-flops at Dunkin’ Donuts (because, well, Starbucks sucks). All of that aside, here goes…

I think, often, about what I’ll say to God, whenever we should happen to meet. I think, also, that we’ve met before. I’m sure I refer to God as a male entity, merely out of habit, because I am just smart enough to know that no gender can define God; just as no particular doctrine/belief/religion can contain God. The picture, I must make, here, in my mismatched flip-flops with crazy hair, is hilarious.

I’m always most inspired in the shower, maybe if I take a bath, I’ll get even smarter. Anyhow, I had my little talk with God (and I only use this term for lack of a more appropriate one, as I said, I don’t associate God with any petty religion or semi-plausible cutesy story, as I like to call them). I know…I’m crazy, but, to be fair, I did say that right at the beginning, so you should have stopped then, if you aren’t digging it, now.

The questions I have for God are voluminous, to say the absolute least. Why, for example, did I feel the need to run from my family, to write this? What does death feel like? Where do all the lost dryer socks go (to name a few)? These doldrums are exhausting. I’m sick of taking life too seriously. It’s gone, in an instant. It amounts to nearly nothing. All that really matters, ever, is the moment you are in…you have nothing else and it’s pure stupidity; wretched and lost; to take any imagined past or borrowed future for granted. The very power of that epiphany hurtled me into this moment. So, I guess I have the answer to one of my questions. I still contend that there must be a very lonely sock dimension somewhere betwixt (I’m trying to bring that word back; work with me, here) this one and the ether.