Dear God, <3 an atheist; I'm so fucking angry; Please, just anywhere but consciousness.);I build these dirty-rat-bastard-walls.;I can’t believe in karma because what if I turned the bad karma into something good?

Dear God,

 

I’m not afraid of death, which is probably why it’s so easy for me to say that I don’t believe in you. (I might be too angry to be afraid of the unknown. Please, just anywhere but consciousness.)  When I say “because the God I don’t believe in hates me,” I think I’m mostly referring to the responsibility I put on myself (somewhat like the Greeks I suppose – God of War, Goddess of Love inside me). So, when I write this attempt to figure out how life works, I write to myself, I write to the force I can’t touch or see but have to lay the blame on; the force I have to thank for the timeliness of my mistakes and triumphs.

Oh God, I thought of all these amazing things to say to you on the drive home from the party where I drank a lot of booze and saw the people I work with as something greater than reference books for my faults.  They’ve all flittered from my brain upon opening the door to my apartment I share with my amazing gusband.

There are so many beautiful, smart women I see feeling sad because they don’t feel loved by or attractive to people who mean the world to them.  Oh God, they’re so kind that they won’t simply tell me “No” because they like what they see, but they could never see it as more than the forgotten child-fancy of hope. Stop making me think I can make them (or anyone) happy. Not in a pathetic “love me back” kinda way, but we’re all so lost and they can’t see it because (fuck God) it hurts so much.

God, please tell me that the dinosaurs died because I touch myself at night. I can’t imagine an ice age much colder than the one happening to the heart organ that attaches to my organ that orgasms. At least it would be good for something as a dying history.

God, you knew the whole neighborhood saw and left it in your hands. But there were babies hungry, and ten fingers reach only only so far, and my God did they feel so good in my hair where they innocently played until shivers tingled up my spine attaching to nonexistent tendons in missing veins holding a heart that died years ago with the drain of blue from the sky.

You know that balloons with helium find their way to blow holes of whales and fucking kill them? I’ve never seen seen a whale outside of a whale cage.  We make cages for things we describe as “majestic,” then we record their sounds and say that they are soothing sounds, and then we fall asleep imagining that someone wraps their bodies around ours, and it means something other than “I’m lonely.”

God, why did you make me conscious without enough drugs built into the chassis? Seriously, why is it I’m only comfortable writing this perfectly normal feelings when I’m having trouble seeing the computer screen? I know they feel it too, so why can’t I ask them and learn and grow without walls.  Metaphors are too heavy, so I slam into a brick wall just to slim them down.

I build these dirty-rat-bastard-walls. I’m a creeper because drooling sounds and peeping eyes around corners somehow capture the distance I feel all day and need to have acknowledged, otherwise I’d feel like I was talking to myself all day.

We sing to each other and change the lyrics because they can’t quite apprehend what we’re experiencing because we’re quite aware of what we’re going through. “The problem here,” Jeff Goldblum eventually reveals, “is that language always fails,” as the dinosaurs consume our advances.  He has pussy lips, so I’m not quite sure if that means we should ironically heed his words or ignore them like the Good Lord intended on Sunday morning’s cable access.

It really breaks my heart, God, how much it hurts when I don’t mean to harm but I see them bleeding. I wish you’d let it break, but the goddamn thing still ticks like there’s a train to catch. You were handing out brains, and I thought you said “trains,” so I went and got on one then got kicked off for not having a ticket. That’s fine. The journey is supposed to be the fun part.

God, I find myself working 50 hours a week, and maybe I don’t know enough about economics to claim that I should feel comfortable, but I’m afraid an archaic check will be my second strike putting my feet over a fire that somehow can’t roast marshmallows, but the kids still love.

I do yoga and try to rainbow in all my coloring books, and I try to say that I’m taking care of myself because everyone leaves and therapists find you as a customer.

I read about Auschwitz, and I understand it as cat and mouse because that’s how Spielberg told it then how Spiegelman hashed out the pain, and I honestly don’t know that poetry existed afterwards or if poetry did not begin until afterwards.

Remember when I used to talk to you all the time? Not me as you, but you? I honestly believed that there was some plan where I wouldn’t get hurt, and if I did everything right, everything would turn out alright. I used to ask you to bless my dead pets because everyone says they didn’t have souls, but God you knew how happy they made me.

I can’t believe in karma because what if I turned the bad karma into something good?

I want to be auntie to all the children of my friends because they make beautiful beings.  I create ugly paintings that you can’t turn away from, would it be good for some of that to rub off like the red that inevitably clings to my fingertips.

I can understand why you don’t want me. I don’t know if I should be talking to you or myself. I don’t know if in talking to myself I’m talking to you. I don’t know that in talking to you I’m talking to myself.

God, can’t you see we’re all people who are just trying? Even if you left us to choice, even if you left us to chance, I can’t believe in the devil because she’s only just the part of me that hates you and hates me so it doesn’t matter who I’m talking to.  I’m glad she hates you and me because she tells us to fuck it, and I realize that I can fuck it like a man or a woman or strap one on and fuck it like both. We make cages for things we describe as “majestic,” then we record their sounds and say that they are soothing sounds, and then we fall asleep imagining that someone wraps their bodies around ours, and it means something other than “I’m lonely,” and we really shouldn’t.

God, I’m starting to see straight again and to speak with you this bluntly beyond double-vision is such bullshit waste that a garden would grow and die, and I’d wonder if it’s going to come back next spring.

Best,

MF

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