Anyone who knows me closely enough knows that I struggle with things besides depression, weight loss, and holding on to jobs. I struggle with God. The Big G.
Is there one?
Is it Aliens?
I have no freaking clue. Because of the fact that most people who do believe in God have faith, this makes conversations a little bit harder. Usually ending in, "You just have to believe."
Huh.
I know my bible fairly well, reading mostly out of a research frame of mind, and also it is useful when you are gay to have the multitude of things the bible says you shall not do on hand as a retort to one line in Leviticus.
Me and my polyblend clothing are happy together. I am also just as happy wearing only cotton.
For some personal reasons I decided yesterday to pray.
It went something like this:
"Uh, hey God, it's me. Okay wow that was a Judy Blume start. Sorry. Not that I don't like Judy Blume, I do. Good work with that one God.
Okay ummm, I guess you are kind of busy (thinking IF he is even there).
So, yeah, uh, a lot of bad shit has been happening around me lately. My dear friend was killed, my mother died, my aunt died, my friend has breast cancer (and I am sorry but REALLY? She is a school teacher!)
yeah God, forget this, I just want to tell you to fuck off.
I am sincerely pissed at you.
Why not give me breast cancer? Kill me and bring back all these other people. I am nothing special.
I think people will eventually figure out how to do their own damn hair.
Instead YOU chose for a sweet farmer, an amazing mother, a fantastic brilliant aunt, and let us not forget a father or two in there.
Wow, okay I am angry.
I do not want to do this.
Uhh, Amen."
Hmmmm
That did not go well.
Oh but people will tell me it did! That all I did was reach out! That God can handle me yelling at him! Rejoice! Amy has found God!
Uhhh, no. I didn't.
I found anger and more unresolved issues.
This morning I woke up extra early due to dogs that are one more pile of poop away from being put up for adoption.
I got my headphones out and set off to conquer Mount Dishmore.
What did I choose to listen to? Godspell.
I sang, I soaped, I danced, and was wholly (not holy) in the moment of just being there. Being with the warm water, the music in my ears and head, each dish, cup, looking at it, feeling it. I was there!
I may not have been at Woodstock but damn was I THERE doing dishes! No acid needed.
I felt euphoric.
Naturally I can attribute this to endorphins from the dancing. Nothing at all relating to God. Unless God gave me the endorphins.
Please note that I did not bring up religion. That is enough to make me even more angry. I am of the "Whatever works for you" gang.
I do not know if I am going to pray today.
I do not know if I will ever have, find ,and hold on to the slippery elusive thing called faith.
Even if George Michaels says I have to have it.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Friday, April 1, 2016
Challenge Accepted
Dear Ms. Evers,
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
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