Afraid

This morning, God told me quite clearly I was going to die this afternoon. Being a priest, I suppose in retrospect I should not have been surprised that God would be telling me things quite clearly. But being a priest, I was secretly a bit ambivalent about whether God really existed. But when God spoke, I was surprised enough to yell out and fall down, hitting my head, when I heard the voice of God.

When God speaks to you, it is not pleasant, it comes through so strong. Your whole body becomes stiff as a board, as if you are paralyzed. It reminded me of an epileptic seizure. After God was done telling me I was going to die this afternoon, I got a pack of ice, and applied it to my head. Then I crawled across the floor and I called my brother.

"Joe -- its me!", I said, trying not to sound panicked.

"Oh, hi Bill.", said Joe, sounding sleepy.

"Joe -- I gotta tell you something."

"What?" said Joe, sounding annoyed.

"I just heard from God. Directly from God! It was terrible!"

"Oh?" said Joe, sounding more annoyed. Like he was going to hang up. But I had to go on.

"Joe - he said...God said --", but I couldn't go on because my fucking asshole of a brother had hung up.

That fucking asshole, here I am getting messages directly from God about me dying and my own goddamn brother won't even listen to me before he decides if he believes in me or not. Or believes in God or not. What an asshole. I hate him! I hate him!! Joe, not God, God. Are you really sure I am going to die this afternoon?

I wait, on my knees by the phone, but God doesn't say anything.

I think about my schedule, and wonder how I can avoid dying. What would kill me? Crossing the street to drop in on Sister Margaret's 5th grade class at 11 PM when they are to be discussing catechism? Having lunch with that tiresome group of ladies who are part of the boosting committee? Mass at 3PM for the departed Mr. Chiantilini?
I decide to try and talk to my lousy asshole of a brother one last time, before I could go out and die, according to God.

"Joe!"

"Aw -- what do you want?", says Joe. "I've got a hangover."

"God said I'm going to die this afternoon."

Joe doesn't answer for about 15 seconds. "Well..." he drawls, "...can I have your golf clubs?"

I hang up on him. Insolent bastard. How I hate him. All sorts of memories and instances from our childhood flood back into my head. Like the time I strapped him to a wagon and pushed him down a hill, or the time he poured beads in my ear when I was sleeping, and we had to go to the doctor to get them out. That fucker.

I wash my hands and appreciate the large bruise throbbing on my forehead in the bathroom mirror. To hell with it. If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go. I was a bit bored with the priest thing. Or guilty too, I walk down the stairs or the rectory, and into the strong sunlight. As I squint, getting used to the brightness of the day, everything is right in the world.

Interestingly, the last thing I think about is not about Jesus, or God, or my asshole brother -- but of Janice, from an affair I had three years ago. How she moved to get away from me. Janice, who now lives in Lower Manhattan, in New York, NY. I imagine she got on just fine.

This is the only great regret in my life. How I ruined her life. I cross the street, smelling her perfume, and that is when Janice runs me over with a Ford Escort, with a screaming baby in the passenger seat.

As I bleed to death in the street, I remember what I said to her when she asked.

"No." I said. Because I was afraid. I was afraid.

Hell

I learn things the hard way. That is why I am in Hell, chained to a fiery rock for the rest of the foreseeable future. The suffering is intolerable, how can I describe it. Surrounded by demons, with their objects of torture, I pray I am dreaming.

I wake up. Yes, thank God, I was dreaming. The sheets are creamy and comfortable. I have expensive pajamas. I live in a large house.

And as I wake up more, I realize; I hate my job, I hate my boss, I hate my mother, I hate my children, they hate me. I hate my house, I hate these sheets, and turning, I see I hate you. And waking up more I realize I am in Hell.

Some Unexpected Hypochondriacal Tendencies

I saw it in the news a few days back, and then after reading about it, I was worried about getting Morgellons Disease -- particularly last night for several hours. And I was worried about contracting it again, today, for a few hours. Then naturally, the more I thought about it, the sooner I'd itch somewhere, and the less I though about it, the more I was thinking about other things. This is peculiar for me, because I do not normally have hypochondriacal tendencies. Hypochondriacal tendencies. Say that five times fast. But I have been around hypochondriacs, even lately. I wonder if hypochondria is as catching as Morgellons Disease?

Meanest Customer Support Person Ever, Ebay

Wow! I just got off the phone with the meanest customer support rep I have ever talked to. She was so self righteous and brisk -- making it amply clear how ignorant I was and how in control she and EBay are. She spoke loudly and precisely, without a hint of sympathy -- as if I was offending her by merely calling about my problem. You see, a few weeks ago I was suspended from EBay. Apparently this happens to many people for a wide variety of reasons having nothing to do with violating any rules. So I followed all their directions about getting reinstated, sending billing statements, my ID, email account information...and still I am suspended! And EBay keeps asking me for more information. They won't even tell me what I am suspected of -- other than saying "...(we)determined that you were suspended under the "Abusing eBay" section of the eBay User Agreement." So I decided to call and see if I could clear it up, or at least find out what I am specifically suspected of. The representative I talked to coldly and unapologetically instructed me to continue with the faceless & endless email appeal from the security department. In so many words, I was wrong to expect anything more from EBay. Moreover, I had wasted her time. What a nightmare!

Be Your Own Soda Bartender - Spropper

Add to the standard cup of ice: 70% Dr. Pepper, 20% Fanta (Orange Soda), and 10% Sprite. Mmmm! Spropper!

I better get my ass in gear

I have only a few days to pack my office, to pack by far the messiest office in the whole building, so naturally I get down to it and I procrastinate. People come by and see I have not even tried to pack. I cut out little paper snow flakes, I read the news, I doodle, make useless phone calls, gossip with people in the hallway, remember and forget to have a cup of coffee. When I feel the time slipping away, I feel a stab of concern that I should be packing -- but then I amuse myself by counting every yellow car that goes by on the freeway, I wonder what it would be like to live in Peru, and how the new office will feel after we are done moving. Shit, I better get my ass in gear. No? I have all the time in the world. What did I want? Oh yeah, coffee.

I wished I could have said something encouraging to you

I wished I could have said something encouraging to you, in your time of depression, but you asked me how I felt and to tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, so I told you I hated you, that you are are disgusting horrible person, and you were getting what you deserved. I told you this misfortune was long in coming, and you had everything to do with it. I also said you were lower than dirt, a scum sucking parasite in life, and you should just go off and die. You took what I said in stride, and even agreed with most of my characterizations. Then, when I looked away for one goddamn second, you grabbed me in a headlock and bit off part of my ear. "I told you what you wanted to hear, asshole!" I screamed, and I bled and tried to punch you in the kidneys. "I know!!" you yelled, as we fell through the Cafe's plate glass window.

The May Day Eulogy for Fritz Christopher, Cat

Happy May Day! Sadly, one of our favorite cats died yesterday of a rare wasting disease called FIP, Feline Infectious Peritonitis. He had been sick for about 2 months -- losing weight, sleeping longer than usual, and generally looking poorly. The first round of tests were both hideously expensive and also inconclusive -- but a month later, the second round of tests belatedly confirmed that he had FIP, which is 99.99% fatal. We kept him comfortable, we told him it was okay for him to go, and he died in the afternoon at home, on his favorite couch. For his eulogy, I can say he was loyal, clean, affectionate, never begging for food or being a nuisance in any way, and he especially loved his home. He was a jumper, he enjoyed walking on the banister, and he liked to nap in a patch of sunshine on the stairs. His eyes were large and luminous, the most expressive and intelligent eyes -- full of love. He was so happy while he was here with us -- a castoff cat from the pound. We will miss him dearly.