The last time God spoke to me—which generally happens only annually and then with something that sounds like it came out of a fortune cookie—what God said was:
Choose the right rebellions.
I could only hope that this was a clarion call for more beer, more porno, and more nights at the baths.
But that, alas, would not be the rebellion. That’s the routine.
The struggle to find the living thing and stay with it as it shudders through me. To be awake the morning I wake up alive, like Margarita Nikolaevna after she’d wept for her beloved master every day for a year and one morning she woke up and knew: something is going to happen.
That same night she was flying naked over Moscow, smashing out the windows of prominent literary critics.
Oh Margarita, Yes! The right rebellions!
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