Yes, God speaks to me.
Only very infrequently. Every other year or so.
God speaks to many politicians more often than that. It does not mean they are insane.
In any case, it does not keep them from being re-elected.
Why does God talk so much to politicians? Shouldn’t God be spending time elsewhere? How about encouraging teachers and nurses?
It is possible God is a politician. Perhaps God is an elected representative and we have all been hoodwinked into overlooking the fact.
We might vote.
God can hardly be blamed for being pompous. God likes the elevated tone.
Most of the things God says to me are appropriately grand.
About twenty years ago, God told me: You are here to be a witness. You must learn to write and to pray.
Almost ten years ago, God said: Choose the right rebellions.
(It’s not necessary for God to speak to me very often. Since I never finish what God tells me to do.)
The last time God spoke to me, the words were very ordinary.
God said: You will be wrapped in a red blanket.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Sounds ominous, doesn’t it? Like I’m going to be the victim of a traffic accident.
Or, more ominously, a monastic order.
I didn’t understand at all, but I kept my eyes peeled for that red blanket.
It’s conspicuous how uninterested God is in practical matters. Evidently six days of that was enough.
God never gives me suggestions about how to pay off my student loans. God doesn’t tell me to get a job. God doesn’t even show up occasionally to shout, “For godsakes keep it in your pants!”
It is possible that God is a bad influence.
One afternoon a man arrived and wrapped me in a blanket. “I want to give you something,” he said.
Except it was a brown blanket. No red in it at all. Very definitely brown.
I felt disappointed, but also somewhat relieved.
If it had been a red blanket, I would have felt compelled to marry him. I would have had to move to Chile. Which is an expensive country. And learn Spanish.
Chile is a long way away. I am frightened enough trying to speak my own language.
Also I am already married.
On the other hand, I was tempted to put some red dye in a bucket and shove that blanket in.
Isn’t that what it means to be the master of your own destiny?
The Chilean was an extraordinarily good kisser.
It’s true that he was somewhat scrawny. No flesh on him at all except for his lips, his cock and his ass.
What more does a person need!
The blanket was just a plain brown blanket but it was a hundred percent pure wool.
It was beautiful, the way he wrapped it around me. Like I was someone in particular.
Most men – you know how it is. They get off with whatever is there to get off with. Vaseline, suntan oil, spit. Yours truly.
Not so the Chilean. It was somewhat unnerving, the way we had sex.
I was visible the whole time.
Actually there was something quite odd about the Chilean.
Of course these men are nearly all odd. That’s why they’re my lovers.
I mean something really peculiar.
The Chilean said, I love you. He kept on saying it. He looked me right in the eye when he said it. I love you.
He was a trick. I was a trick.
I love you. He wouldn’t take it back or modify it.
He glared at me. He held my face in his hands and he forced me take it. I love you.
He taunted me with it. I love you.
I love you.
But I was looking for a red blanket.