Take a Cotton to Fantastic Slights

The first thing I did when the Son of God materialized in my living room one night was take aim right between his eyes with a Tec-9 submachine gun. “Put up your hands, creep,” I told him. He responded by hovering in the air with arms outstretched, emitting warm light.

“What in hell is the meaning of this?” I asked him. “You weren’t invited. You’re a goddamn vampire—I have to let you in.”

“Do you know in your heart that I am Jesus Christ?”

“I had a feeling. Nice robe. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?”

“I am here to wash away your skepticism; I’m here to welcome you into the light of the LORD. I exist, Sarah. I Am.”

He spread out his hands full wingspan, emitting a golden glow. A gust of wind scented with the air from a far-off beach ruffled my hair, stinging my eyes; songbirds trilled; all around me I could hear a celestial chorus, angel voices, harmonizing in a language that I had never heard.

After a moment of the strange sensations, I cleared my throat. “This is all very impressive, but seeing as how everything you’re doing can be done with illusive stagecraft and trickery, I choose to believe this is an elaborate prank. And also, felony trespassing.”

“I am your one choice for salvation!”

At which point my trigger finger shivered and I blew off Jesus’ head. He hit the floor like a twenty-pound sack of rotten Idaho potatoes. The glow went out of him like that.

“Oh, Jesus!” I shouted to the room, suddenly empty. There’s something about the violent death of the only other person in the room to make you feel acutely aware of how utterly alone you are. How open to attack you are by, say, an air-to-sea high holy missile, which will probably be arriving imminently, as soon as the G-man hears you’ve killed his son.

Which only raises further questions. How does this message get relayed? There’s no witnesses. Does he already know? They’re the same person. Oh my lord, what if I just killed them both?

I peeked out the window and saw the fabric of the world dissolving, ripping apart from itself like wheat in a thresher. “Oh, fuck,” I said. “I’ve destroyed reality.”

At which point I put down the machine gun and began to perform CPR on Jesus. Blood spurted from his lower abdomen, where three bullets penetrated him below the ribcage. A fourth took off part of his ear, and a fifth one went into his eye. The other eye was staring, unfixed, and I was like, this motherfucker’s dead. And as I was breathing a rescue breath into his mouth, it occurred to me, hell, he’s come back from worse, right? Rome killed him last time, and Rome was friggin’ brutal.

Which reminded me of the Resurrection. Of course. I dipped a finger into the ashtray and drew a crude crucifix on my forehead, hoping this would stave off any possible attack from the Undead Risen Christ. And then I took the machine gun back into my grip. Backed a chair into a corner. Peered out the window, from behind the curtains, carefully. Outside, stars were blinking out of the night sky, leaving nothing but a yawning dome of infinite black. Well, no takesies-backsies. Excepting a few beautiful flowers indigenous to the island of Japan, this universe sucked dick. As it collapses, I empty my clip into the once-sheltering sky. Thus we surfboard into nonexistence. Friends, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I hope you have time to grab a Bud Dry before the end, here, and forgive me. I simply know not what I do.

Photo Credit: Getty


the Gifts

For years, my dad has been giving me these awesome pep talks. Perfectly balanced meditations with kind indulgence of delusion alongside real talk. My dad, you see, is my biggest fan, my greatest sponsor. In the parlance of Virginia Woolf, he is the one above all others who ensures, in case of my failings, that I’ve a room of one’s own.

I spoke with him today, after he gave me $140 to renew the tag of my car, and bought me $130 worth of mostly bulk-meat groceries. My dad is a mighty good man.

It’s good to have somebody who believes in you, who you can look at and say, “I’m sad.” Somebody who knows how to respond to that. Somebody free with their cash, supporting your derelict ass. Somebody wonderful.

He has, for years, been my soundboard. Stories I write, I bounce off of him. He loves stories. He knows stories. He’s a strange man; full of depth, and insight, but always favoring the simplistic. He keeps pimping out Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files to me, for instance. I don’t know how to turn him down, at this point. I feel like he’s so smart, yet he’s also such a doofus. It makes me stay on my toes regarding my own self-perception. I am also a doofus, but slightly differently. My dad is both smart and dumb, an embarrassment, and a delight. Life is all contradictions.

I got my Christmas shopping finished. Ultimately I bought gifts for five people:

1. My brother
2. My sister (Multiple gifts; her birthday is December 19, which makes her a powerhouse this month)
3. My mom
4. My dad
5. The roommate

& NO ONE ELSE. My life, and social circle, is this small. I feel like this is overall a good thing. Gifts for these fools were so goddamn expensive.

I am a lucky, beloved person.