I Wrote a Book…

…and you can even buy it legit like a real writer & everything, right here!

I know my blog is free, but think of this book as like a blog before I got healthier, with even more rambling & swearing & longer. And also it costs a little money. So not like a blog at all.

Ewoks: Murderers & Fascist Sympathizers

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The following argument was developed over the course of the last 20 hours or so via frank discussion & a smattering of research (cos for real most Star Wars viewers are not aware of the expanded universe. C’mon, people; don’t kid yourselves.)

It’s a well known fact that Ewoks are murder bears. I’ll not dispute that point, as it is documented fact, & I will use this fact to advance the argument that Ewoks were Imperial sympathizers. SILENCE = COMPLICITY.

However, if you are under 30 years old & remember Ewoks as adorable little borderline-racist teddy bears, let me refresh your memory, as you have chosen to remember Wickett encountering Leia. It never occurred to you that he was alone & could not subdue & eat her by himself, did it?

But what happened when Luke, Han, C3PO, R2D2, & Chewie were ensnared by their meat trap? They were treated as meat! Not until Luke & C3PO managed to convince them with Force Deityimpersonation did they let them go. Leia couldn’t convince them cos they were just fattening her up for dessert.

So we have established that Ewoks are murder bears for those whose childhoods were steeped in marketing & self deception.

For the rest of us whose childhoods were unending introductions to the cold reality of the miseries of the universe, it becomes immediately evident that Ewoks were not only murder bears, but they were Imperial sympathizers. Murder is one thing, but allowing a fascist organization to establish a base on your forest moon in order to rebuild a planet-destroying murder satellite that is oppressing an entire galaxy is beyond the pale.

Let us assume the following things are true:

1. Ewoks are sentient (they have language, religion, a social structure).
2. Ewoks have been approached by Imperial protocol droids before. They might have even been deceived by Imperial protocol droids into believing they are god figures, paving the way for their perception of Threepio.
3. Ewoks normally eat offworlders (see above).

I just realized that by setting up the scenario wherein Ewoks encountered Imperial protocol droids, I made room for the argument that the Empire lied to Ewoks, telling them the shield generator was some kind of mystic portal to the teddy bears’ picnic, & that’s why they never attacked it & ate the tasty beings within until Threepio droidsplained.

Ok, never mind, maybe the Ewoks are just intellectually non-curious dumbasses/murderers & not fascist sympathizers.

But if we take out assumption 2 (that murderbears had encountered Imperial protocol droids) then why did they allow the Empire to build a base replete with landing pads on their home world? What is that shit? If Jerry Brown landed a helicopter on our patio, crushing our lemon tree, & started building a bunker I’d be all “Are you fucking serious right now? Get out my goddamned land!”

Then he’d be all “Oh, we are building a government thing here. We sent a letter.”

I’d go through my mail. “The hell you did.”

“Oh, it must have come in today’s mail. Go check.”

“This is today’s mail. Also why would you give like a day’s notice for this kind of thing? This is a hostile takeover! Kkhkhh…argh…glorp…” because at this point Jerry Brown has force choked me to death.

Then my roommate, a lawyer, comes home & finds my force choked lifeless form on the balcony & Jerry Brown with a crew of helmeted lackeys digging up our patio. She begins to cite California property law but then Obama shows up & fries her with force lightning. We’re just 2 people.

But there were tons of Ewoks. Where is their intellectual curiosity? Surely somebody approaches a Bike Trooper having a wee in the forest & says “Chub chub” or some shit & is then shot, prompting other Ewoks to investigate? No? Murder bears don’t give a shit about fascism?

First they came for the Rebels, & the Ewoks were silent…

Man, fuck Ewoks.

Star Wars nerds lodging earnest complaints below will be ignored & probably mocked. Just FYI. Also I have Force Tickle at a distance of 100k kilometres.

Jesus Has Your Back, Yo

My friend is keeping a secret Lenten blog, & in it she discusses Jesus’ admonition to keep your piety to your damn self. This kind of flies in the face of me keeping a pretty open blog about what’s going on with my Give Ups/Give Ins, but I’m not here to tell you I’m an awesome super Christian. I’m here to tell you I totally suck at everything without The Lord.

I’ve spoken before about how God’s various commandments are not there to make us feel like crap about ourselves, but they’re there to help us avoid dumb shit He knows is bad for us because hello, He’s God. Let me share with you a modern parable that I give to my clients from time to time to illustrate why it’s better to listen to your Elders (Cthulu worshippers may identify):

If you’ve ever spent twenty minutes with a toddler, a cat, or a dog, you notice a couple of things. They spend a lot of time close to the ground, & they make a beeline for anything on that ground. Say you have vacuumed the absolute living crap out of your front room, but now there’s a toddler/cat/dog hanging out. They can see the cracker you dropped under your couch three months ago. It is now their utmost desire & goal to obtain that cracker.

They spend the better part of ten minutes staring at, stalking, & evaluating that cracker. They then spend another ten trying to get to that cracker. You, as guardian, may make remarks like “What’re you doing?” in a big goofy high pitched voice, but you’re not a jerk & you want to see what the tiny creature is up to. Eventually, they emerge from under the couch with the cracker in hand or mouth, beaming with pride, and they are about to bite…

What do you do? “Oh God NO!” you yell, whipping the dustmite-coated prize from the tiny creature. You know it’s totally gross & will make them sick. You are horrified that such a thing exists in your world. You feel like the world’s worst housekeeper. And now the child is screaming & crying. The dog is whining. And cat has already scratched you & run off with it & is chomping it down & will throw it up in your shoe later.

And now you know how God feels when He sees us striving for the low & disgusting things in our ground-level eye line. He’s like “Seriously? I have a fresh batch of cookies in the oven for you! Why in the hell are you using all your energy to get a dusty cracker? CAN’T YOU SMELL THE COOKIES?”

And Jesus is all “Forgive them, Father, for they can only see dusty crackers.”

And God’s like “Fine, whatever. Where’s the DustBuster?”

My dusty cracker has been The Wrong Man, sugar, stable but spirit-crushing work. “Look what I can do!” I say to The Lord. He sighs. “But I’ve imagined so much more for you. Oh well, come to Me when you’re fed up with dusty crackers. And would it kill you to stop puking in my shoes?”

What has this to do with Lent? Well, it’s forcing me to see beyond the dusty crackers. I was hungry after my tasty but meager dinner. The Voice whispered “Maybe now would be a good time to work out.” I said “Maybe I should check on my elven army” cos I was just made regent of my alliance & I’m responsible for the happiness of 67 Hobbit: Kingdoms of Middle Earth players. “Yeah, ok, that will help,” says the Voice, rolling His eyes.

But after I checked on my elves (they’ve mined a ton of ore!), I got on the recumbent bike. I did some arms. And God was right. I was no longer hungry, & I’d worked out for 20 minutes.

The dusty cracker of sloth is hella tempting. God dangled fitness cookies in front of me & I was like “Yeah, I’ll have one of those, though it feels like suffering” & Jesus was all “You think you know from suffering?” & I was like “Well, yeah” & then I felt like a stupid baby, but an empowered stupid baby.

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Cos seriously if left to my own devices I’d weigh 900lbs, have one of those fetishist feeder boyfriends who controls me, & y’all would be carting me around in the back of a firetruck.

Jesus has my back, yo, even though I am a total idiot. He’s got yours, too. I won’t comment as to your level of idiocy.

Woo HOO! Lent!

Is it weird to be excited about Lent?

This is the first year in my life I’m observing Lenten season. I’ll be 40 at the end of this month, so for 39 years I’ve been blissfully & ignorantly unaware of the benefit of a penitential season.

My friends without faith may find penitence to be a useless exercise prescribed by a litigious God. If you’ve grown up with unrelenting self doubt, survivor guilt, victim guilt, & low self worth, limiting your reflection & restriction to 40 days is somewhat freeing. Instead of serving a sentence limited only by your own limitless self loathing, 40 days with a giant pardon at the end granted by the death & resurrection of your Saviour is like BOOYAH!

Concentrating your reflection is also useful. When studying treatment modalities in a heavily behaviour-focused psychology program, you spend a lot of time talking about goal-oriented therapy. You also mock the indulgent rambling of psychoanalysis (for both the client in the starring role as the constant victim in their own life & the therapist collecting the cash). You can & should teach healing mechanisms to your clients & you should measure their progress within a limited time frame, just as you would a client at the gym or a patient healing from a physical disease. This has the benefit of giving the client self sufficiency as well as simultaneously evaluating the efficacy of the therapist & their methods.

And just like a personal trainer’s client, a therapist can only expect success if the client is ready to genuinely change.

Lent gives us the opportunity to figure out if we are ready to change. When we reach the end of the season & we find ourselves enjoying smaller, simpler meals & committing to an act of faith, we can ask ourselves “Have my priorities changed? Am I happier with simpler needs? Am I over being distracted by trappings & cravings?” If you’re not, you can try again next year (if not before).

By giving up my slavery to food & sloth (& all the reasons I became their bitch, including some valid medical ones that Lenten fasting rules do allow us to address), I hope to find an inner strength & a clarity. Jesus is hella awesome at showing us that stuff.

I know I’m supposed to be solemn & shit, but I’m kind of stoked.

Horror Show

Now that I’m watching The Walking Dead, my dreams are clearly influenced, except I don’t believe in zombies so my brain invents even more horrifying scenarios.

In last night’s dream I was living in the messiest of dorms. I think it was Georgetown. A ginger dude I met in the hall had a clear & endearing crush on my roommate, who I’m pretty sure was my friend Nurse Rachel. I jokingly said he needed to step up his game if he wanted her attention, & his face instantly changed. His eyes glassed over & he broke out in a sweat. He didn’t actually become a zombie, but everything he did after demonstrated a sublimation of his free will & motion.

I figured out, after a couple of scenarios involving thinking that I wanted a coffee & that traffic in Hollywood was bugging me, that he responded to my every whim even if it would kill him. The guy would show up in a panic & sweat to take care of my every thought.

He was in obvious distress & so was I. I got to a point where I tried hard to stop thinking of anything so he wouldn’t show up. I begged him to stop bringing me things. Dhino at work even tried to bar him from coming in to hand me food or clothes or shoes. I was in tears seeing his haggard, exhausted face. I gave everything he brought me away.

Toward the end of the dream, it occurred to me to pray to God to restore this young man’s free will, which he had given to me without my permission or desire. And immediately he was free. He wandered off in a daze & I never saw him again. Then I woke up.

That was awful.

“You’re A Saint!”

People who are accused of sainthood will tell you over & over again: I’m just doing what comes naturally. Those who willfully take care of the needs of difficult people (whether you define that as the mentally ill, the neurotic, the perpetually angry or anybody in a Corolla going 20 mph down Ventura) don’t do so because they are saints or even massochists; they don’t know any better.

Does that make them saints, or does it simply make them followers of Christ?

Last Sunday’s sermon was about All Saints’ Day. It took me a while to figure out how to write about this. I have a number of excuses. Monday, somebody needed me more than I needed to write. Tuesday I went into fibroflare. Wednesday is my long day. Thursday I don’t even remember what happened. Friday I was drained. So here I am, secreted away in my room, avoiding several invites to go out because I’m tired & in pain, pondering sainthood.

Father says saints aren’t celebrities. I don’t take this to be a dig on famous folk so much as we need to focus on what celebrity means. A “celebrated” person is one we get excited to see, talk about, learn about. Angelina Jolie is a celebrity. Kanye West (my laziest long running joke) is a celebrity even if you hate him because he does things people want to talk about (& make lazy long running jokes about). The President is a celebrity, period, whether he’s Obama or Reagan or Rutherford B. Hayes, though Hayes is kinda D list now, which happens to all of us when we retire from the public eye.*

*If you so much as even think about “informing” me he’s dead in the Comments section, I will end you, though this means very little coming from an English person. I will probably serve you some crappy bagged tea & only bake you one cake.

For me it says that saints should be celebrities. We should celebrate & talk about those who have sacrificed great swaths of their lives (& sometimes their very lives) for the love of Christ. They show it to others, died in His name to honour it, lived it day in & out. But they weren’t being paid $3 mil a year to do an ad campaign, & they never flipped a table in childish rage on a reality show, so meh, say we.

This is actually just fine to the saint. Nobody who is a saint thinks they are one. They’re just doing their thang. They don’t want attention drawn to it; they don’t want a reward. They show love to others simply because it is the right thing to do. They exhibit this love to each individual, one at a time, because that is the most loving thing a human person can do–give personal time.

Anyone with a winning smile & a joke can stand up in front of a camera & say something nice & make people feel kinda good for a minute, maybe even longer. But saints will come to you when it’s convenient to you, not to them. Saints will help you just because you need it, not because they need someone to think they’re awesome. Saints don’t do things for others because someone’s watching.

So they can’t be celebrities. I don’t think the reverse is true. Celebrities could be saints & we’d have no idea, just like you don’t know that the guy going 20mph in the Corolla in front of you (allegedly the spawn of Satan & a diseased hamster as you curse him out from behind your steering wheel) gets up at 5 every morning & prepares meals for homeless folks. Or he visits sick children in the hospital. Or he donated bone marrow to a stranger. So yes, speed up, saintly man, but I’m sorry I called you the love child of Dolores Umbridge & a rusty flute.

Some of you (you know who you are) believe nobody does things from the kindness of their heart. You believe everybody’s got an angle. I used to believe as you do that everybody’s got their kink, their weakness, & no one is to be trusted. The PTSD part of me still eyes people warily in this fashion, suspecting that people are mostly crap. There are, however, real saints in the world. I think I’ve met a couple. It’s enough for me now to allow people to show me who they are. Most people are broken. Some heal jagged; some breaks reveal dazzling light patterns beneath, like the breaking set free the angel, at least in part. These are saints in our modern world. They’re broken, but they live in light anyway, & they want to share it.

But most people are crap. Jesus loves them anyway. If I can’t love them, I give them to Him. His SPCA is vast, His veterinary clinic fully stocked, funded & staffed, & His is a no kill facility.

Phariseetastic!

I find myself thinking about the sermons at St. Thomas of Hollywood long after we’ve all chanted “Thanks be to God.” As most of you don’t live in LA, & many of you don’t have the good fortune to hear Father Ian’s interpretation of the Gospel (or his signature humour), I thought I might write these impressions down.

Last Sunday, Deacon Walter chanted from the Gospel of St. Luke 18:9-14. To summarize, a Pharisee goes on & on about what a great fricken Jew he is & what a bad dude this publican is, & the publican feels bad, hits himself in the chest, & asks God to be merciful to him, a sinner. Jesus explains that the publican is a way cooler dude than the Pharisee because he admits his faults.

Father Ian went on to explain that not only do we find people like the Pharisee annoying, but he thinks maybe God does, too. If you’ve ever been a boss, you remember the kid that was fond of telling you everything he did during the day. You were thinking the whole time “Yeah, that’s your job, spanky.” Then you’d go to lock up or run a report & find stuff missing or undone. Alternately, you’d have an employee that would come timidly to your office & say “Uh, I think I screwed up” & that person was awesome because you could fix it right now, not at 6:47 when everyone else had gone home.

God loves everybody, but I have to think He rolls His eyes when folks go on & on about how they’re getting into heaven because they’re super duper on time to church or gave a ton at the plate or are Kanye West or whatever.

This reminded me, to my great personal horror, of a birthday party I attended in Croydon when I was 5. The birthday boy was Nicholas, my first love. He was tall (for a six year old), had blue eyes, was very nice, & was the sort of lanky grey colour English school boys tend to be.

His mum announced at the beginning of the birthday party that a present would be given to the most well behaved child. She then held up a festively wrapped box. She probably read this little trick in some mothering book or magazine, thinking it would elicit cherubic obedience from what might otherwise be a mewling hoard of primary school whingetarians.

She did not count on me, the ultra competitive people pleaser whose entire life up to that point was a study in impressing adults.

I announced from the get go that I would be so good, she would have no trouble deciding on whom should receive the present. She smiled. I then proceeded to help as much as was possible for a 5 year old. I was extra quiet except for my periodic announcements that I was being quiet.

At the end, Nicholas’ mum asked us to vote for who the best behaved child was. I humbly nominated myself. When informed I could not nominate myself, I cheerfully nominated Nicholas. When informed that the birthday boy was excluded, I thought for a moment. I looked at my very quiet little brunette friend in the corner, Joanne. “Joanne is the best behaved,” I said solemnly, as that was pretty much always true.

The other children nodded. Joanne looked positively horrified when she was handed the gift. We all asked her to open it. I don’t even remember what it was. All I remember is that Joanne did not seem to want any attention on her.

I have since seen that slightly guilty, horrified look on a little girl’s face when it was inevitable she’d win a game of musical chairs at the expense of a movie star’s daughter. The winner burst into tears; the movie star’s daughter, a very thoughtful & normal little girl, burst into tears because the other girl was upset. “It’s ok for you to win!” said the movie star’s daughter, stroking the sobbing winner’s hair. I imagine the winner’s mother made a tremendous fuss over being nice to Movie Star’s Daughter before the party.

I have two points (I know, I know). Point A: I was a hideous child, as despicable as the Pharisee in the gospel. B. Little girls have intense pressure from their status-seeking mothers, but also inherent empathy, until it is scolded from them by status-seeking mothers.

My mother, who was not seeking status via Nicholas’ 6th birthday party, might have been horrified to learn of my competitive goodness. The mother of Musical Chair Winner was probably pleased as punch to learn that her kid & Movie Star’s Daughter hugged it out.

I feel like Joanne & Musical Chair Winner were the “rest of the publican’s tale” of their respective stories. They didn’t feel like they did enough, they wanted to play it safe & escape notice, but then attention was called to them & they were rewarded for being humble in the face of it. The difference between myself & the Pharisee is that I loved Joanne & was happy she won, though by pointing this out, I’m still being a little Phariseesque I spose, in that I don’t want you to loathe 5-year-old me.

Is it wrong to want to be noticed for being good good good & oh so smart? Not really, unless that is the only reason you are being good good good & oh so smart. The idea in Christianity is that goodness is its own reward. Parents teaching toddlers empathy say this all the time. “See? Doesn’t sharing just feel good?” Most toddlers say no, mostly because that part of their brain hasn’t developed yet (so seriously don’t even worry about sharing until they’re about 4).

Maybe somewhere God is telling a bunch of angels “Seriously don’t even worry about teaching the humans sharing for another 2 millennia. Right now they’re doing it expecting some kind of societal feedback, with rare exception. Keep an eye on the ones that do it ‘just because’. They shall inherit the earth.”

If you remember nothing else from this, repeat this mantra: “Be awesome to other people. Don’t rabbit on about it, cos then you’re just Kanye*.”

*If you want to be Kanye, I can’t help you, but I’ll pray for you.

Buttery Butter Cake, Grain Free!

There is no photo of the Buttery Butter Cake as it was inhaled.

Y’all are familiar with my gluten free almond cake & have frequently enjoyed it at my home or elsewhere. Those of you who love it will be shocked to learn that there exists a person near & dear to my heart who despises everything that even tastes remotely of marzipan in much the same way that I hate having my fingernails ripped off while a Jersey housewife reads from Leviticus. And that person would be my mother.

As I was heading to her Ventura Get Away Abode (a double wide in a senior living park on the harbour) that Saturday, & knowing that she likes to have something a little sweet with tea, & knowing that I myself have completely gone off grains due to wanting to die when I eat them, I decided to modify my almond cake recipe.

My inspiration came from the buttery flavour of cashews.

If you have any vegan friends, you know that these folk make pretty much every fake dairy product on the planet from cashews. Cashew cheese, cashew cream, cashew milk…& I understand why. When I eat the roasted, salted kind, I am distinctly aware of their buttery flavour.

My buttery butter cake recipe is basically the almond cake recipe, but with cashews. Gather:

-2 cups of raw cashews
-1/2 cup of sugar
-1 teaspoon real vanilla extract
-3/4 cup of egg whites
-1 stick of unsalted butter, room temp

Pulse the cashews & sugar in a food processor until almost powdery. Add the last 3 ingredients & pulse till combined. The “dough” is pretty thick.

Butter an 8×8 pan (or a 9×9 if you want more delicious crispy edges & bottoms), pour in the dough, shake to even out & put in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes. This is so easy you can do it while waiting for a laundry cycle.

I wait about 5 minutes before cutting it w/ a butter knife into 8 bars, then let it cool a little longer. It is AMAZING with PG Tips. It’s good warm & cold. It would take double cream & curd well if you wanted to serve it as an afternoon tea cake. I think it would take a melted chocolate top well also.

My mother is not a sweets person, but when I went to take the leftovers home, there was one bar left with a big bite out of it. She fessed up.

You can use as little as a quarter cup of sugar & it’s still ok, it’s just more like a grainless bread at that point. I would also use only a quarter cup of sugar if you were going to glaze it or ice it.

I have now been charged with bringing a buttery butter cake to anything involving my mother ever.

Oh And Another Thing…

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There’s a rather ugly strain of snark going around right now that speaks from a place of high intellectual assessment of pop culture & its various depravities. Instead, it betrays the snarkist as medically ignorant.

I get that some people are on diets because it’s trendy & fashionable. But those diets exist because some of us would die or at least experience tremendous discomfort if we ate the foods that aren’t on them. Yes, a Norm that goes gluten free is kidding herself, but for those of us with celiac, it’s not us making a fuss or being difficult or precious. It’s that we don’t want to crap ourselves in your presence in the immediate future, & we don’t want diseased bowel cut out of us at a later date.

If someone has a nut or wheat allergy, they frequently learned this after showing up at the ER because they stopped breathing. So let’s not be dicks about this. You may as well deride someone for being averse to drowning or falling into a wood chipper. Should we poo poo those who aren’t keen on being hacked to death by Jizzy The Marvelous Murder Clown? Well then seriously. Calm your tits. Don’t be offended if someone can’t eat something you made. It not their fault any more than it’s yours. And if they’re over the age of 7, they usually get that.

(If they do throw a fit & you didn’t know, however, feel free to assume their blood sugar is low & that all this stuff is coming up from the time their brother poured soy sauce in their Coke when they weren’t looking & they missed Thanksgiving due to near death. We all have baggage.)

I am also weary of people who mock those that look different or behave differently without first ascertaining if there’s a medical issue before assuming they’re a slovenly entitled jerk. I’m fond of saying “Most people don’t have Asperger’s; they’re just dicks” but some people do. They’re not dicks; they’re just kinda difficult to get on with. I use that saying so often because I’ll meet women dating a somewhat awkward, neglectful, inappropriate guy but he’s hot so they put up with it cos they saw a thing on Dr. Oz about “Aspergris or whatever” & I’m like “Child, no.”

The same goes for people in the grocery store sick of a child’s flapping or strange utterances (after 20 seconds, not imagining the parent deals with it all day). And my other favourite, the impromptu weight counselor. This has never happened to me, but it has happened to friends losing a significant amount of weight.

The most mortifying example was a gal in a fibro support group who had lost 40 lbs eating right & going to the gym, but she had about 120 to go. She was at the supermarket loading her basket with lean protein & veggies, wearing a sweatshirt from her gym.

An extremely well put together & elegant woman approached her. She was very slender & my friend thought she was beautiful. Then she opened her mouth. She sorta grasped at the sweatshirt & said “Did you get this from Goodwill? Cos your ass has surely never seen the inside of a gym.”

My friend was dumbstruck. She stopped by the pizza & ice cream aisles, went home, cried, & ate. We all got her back on track, but this hideous Beast of Prey did enough damage to make the gal no longer proud to wear her gym sweatshirt out any more.

My response, as I’m this kind of a bitch, would be “I can imagine why you’d think that. I still have a ways to go, but I’ve lost 40 lbs, & I’ve in fact just come from my 3rd gym session this week. I think I have pretty good food choices in my cart, but you’re so slim, maybe you could recommend some others?”

I’ve been known to completely destroy a person’s life with meek kindness.

This all boils down to think before you open your giant flapping hate hole. You don’t want to have to shove your foot in there, do you?*

*Foot fetishists need not answer.

The Prayer of the Helper Monkey

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Dearest Lord Jesus, bastion of compassion, He who tolerated the constant faithless questions of disciples who saw You turn water to wine, heal the sick, & even raise a fricken dead guy from, well, the DEAD but they were still worried about where they’d get a nosh, please help me.

I am a helper monkey. I’m a luxury in the first world. Most people on this planet walk 20 miles for a gallon of clean water, or have been raped by gangs of “soldiers”, or hate monkeys because they steal their food or crap on their house or whatever monkeys do in the wild. What do I know? I’m a trained helper monkey.

I like helping people. Sometimes, I don’t feel like I’m helping Jack nor Shit & I realize, Lord, it’s because sometimes folks are help-resistant. They have become intimate with their misery & it’s the only thing they own, so if they can feed its bloated belly, they will stuff that motherfucker until it pukes. It usually pukes on me, but that’s my job. I’m a helper monkey.

I am sad when I can’t help people. I am angry for them & at them. I have been where they are, & they are reminding me of how well I kept my misery. I had a little bed for it & Fancy Feast & I even bought it little outfits, God help me. It scratched me & it pooped in my shoes, but it was mine. Eventually the thing destroyed my couch & pissed on the few people willing to come over & then it gave me scabies. I asked You if You could take it & You said yes. You took it to Your SPCA in the sky & found out it had some kind of hormone imbalance & also needed to be neutered. You changed it into Experience & since I was already over the zoning limit with other Experiences, You gave it to some nice kid who needed to pad his résumé. That was nice.

One day the people I’m helping, who are help-resistant but who keep coming to me for reasons only You know, will also give their misery to You & You will transform it. Right now they share it with me & I try to help them tame it. I even tell them to give it to You, but they’re either afraid of You because they equate You with some heinous jerk authority figure from their past, or because they mistake the stuff they’re now doing to themselves with stuff they assume You did. I try to explain You don’t hurt people or punish them but they can’t imagine they’re hurting themselves. It’s so hard to bring to light.

So I guess I’m not really praying to You for me. I’m praying for them. Please heal them. They shouldn’t need me any more. I know they won’t initially recognize Your healing as it requires change and change is SCARY but eventually they’ll realize they can’t stay the same & expect things to get better. I’m cheering them on. I wish they knew that. I think they hate me.

Also I would like a drink, or cake. Ooh, or tamales!

Thanks, Jesus,
Your Humble Servant, the Helper Monkey.

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