Dear My Creator, Whoever You May Be

Bearing in mind, after attending 1 x Alpha session the other day in order to compromise and attain enough understanding to fair off an argument about the church beyond a lateral manner – I have been talking to you more over the last two weeks than I ever have over the last few years.

Please understand because you are not a tangible thing, and because my life is crazy-fucking-gorilla-monkey-chaotic-stressful, I forget to talk to you sometimes, so in essence, I have written you a letter. Letters rock, dontcha think?

I believe you have a sense of humour, this much is obvious, since you did make me, and according to general societal inflictions, I’m a fucking nutcase, so please take this from whence it comes:
Please. Can. Everyone. Just. Fuck. Off. Perhaps I’m tired of this bloody city, and because we know that I’m living largely in limbo with regards to everything at the moment, I can’t see the woods from the trees. So I’m asking You to help me with a few things, if that’s alright.

Firstly, please help me to sharpen my reaction time enough so that when there is an asshole driver within my proximity, my middle finger will raise quickly enough in order for this driver to absorb my contempt. I realise driving around with my middle finger up at all times makes me look psycho, and my hand gets sore sitting in traffic like this for twenty minutes. Also, the people that wave or smile at me in a vehicular blockage are probably nice and, by default, don’t deserve to be zapped. I need a general sharpening of the upper cerebellum, so I can engage my fury hastily and also be more creative on a general scale, for if I’m not, I won’t be paid, and then there’ll be endless trouble. I’ll need to move back in with my folks, and I’ll probably be a bit miffed with you. That would be really, really nice.

Also, why does everyone WANT something from me? If it’s not the guy selling Homeless Talk on one corner, it’s the blind person on the next corner, or the legless chap sitting on the traffic circle intersecting Corlett and Oxford. They all want something from me, and I’m finding it hard to be nice and keep my cool, or be patient, or saintly, or give every single one of them R2. Besides impoverishment, which I understand is a problem in this cruel world, I get useless fucking spam sms’ from the cycle lab, or the chick I vaguely know who sells Honey Jewellery and wants me to pick up the bloody catalogue, or my dad wants me to get Skype, or, or or…it’s my new insurance company. OK scratch the last one, as this comes as a welcome. I am now a part of the Outsurance family.

You might’ve cottoned on ifrom our last couple of conversations that I’m dealing with a problematic lack of self-esteem at the moment, oh thine creator of mine. I’d appreciate it if you could make me feel pretty again. Or give me like, one good hair day. Or perhaps do something that is deemed valuable by someone else, so that I feel confident in my abilities again. This includes everything, like pulling off loud trousers to systematically brilliant work protocol.

Generally, please help me see through the haze that envelopes me like a dark cloud and make me realise why I am here, please. I realise you only help those that help themselves, but I may even be past this point right now.

But so far, thanks very much for my gold shoes, for [on-and-off, unpredictable and slow] internet connection, that it’s Tuesday not Monday, for regular bowel movement, for smoked salmon and cilantro, for the refuge that is my apartment, for Home & Away, for my unsurprising lack of interest in sports and instead for the bookworm imbibing trait succumbing to the absorption of literature in a horizontal position, and for my long neck and not giving me cankles.

Also for those – and this is important – who love me unconditionally, even if I do have hairy feet and hate Tuscan architecture.
Sincerely, and here’s to a good give-and-take relationship,

Peas On Toast