2.15.17

Dear God,

Who the hell do you think you are?

At what point in your creative process did you think it was a good idea to give human beings emotions? Why couldn’t you make us how you made deer or dogs or cockroaches? Have you ever watched a deer? They’re so dumb it hurts my head. But they’re happy. Their agendas are empty:

(1) eat

(2) don’t die

The human agenda, on the other hand, is full. Between EAT and DON’T DIE we have a million things to worry about. You fucked up, man. Why did you invent money or disease or war or heartbreak or monogamy or old age or child slavery or genocide or water shortages or politics or opinions or facts or outer space or failure or people who kill other people in your name?

If you made Man in your image, then you’re a sociopath.

Please fix this. Rectify the terrible curse you’ve invented. There is still hope. The world is 99.999999999999999999 percent fucked. But I find hope in fleeting miracles, like the time you took my uncle from me, and how I was driving 103 on the highway, heading south to San Diego, with great globs of rain beating on my car like fists, falling from the sky like miniature crystal balls and exploding in a brilliant mist, as if sacrificing themselves for my mourning. I grew to know the world that day.

But enough of that. This letter is not about me. It’s about you and your psychopathic masochism. Stop it. Please. End the suffering. Or, at the very least, get rid of loneliness, acne, and back hair.

Have you ever been lonely? Have you felt what it means to be alone?

I look forward to being ignored by you,

me

Written at 10:14 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, after eating an insane amount of sushi.