Tuesday, March 20th. The 28th day of Lent.
Of course, one of the dangers of writing from the unconscious and writing every night without much time to edit yourself is that everyone can see your shit. Take me for example. Something like twenty-five straight days of writing during Lent and how many of those are about how I used to be a minister but now I’m not? Or how I’m looking for a church but it’s weird sitting in the pew after all these years.
For Christ’s sake – and I mean that literally; Jesus is probly up in heaven rolling his eyes right now – stop talking about that shit.
I know. I’m sorry. It’s obviously on my mind. I try not to think about it, but it’s right below the surface, so if you scratch, you know, it just comes out is all.
Well just stop it, okay? We get it. You were a minister. Good for you. Set apart, ordained, seminary diploma up your ass. Whatever. Now you’re not. Welcome to humanity. You do know that most people are NOT ministers, right? Look around. Seriously, right now. You’re in charge of the body these days. Just turn the head and look around. See those people?
Not a minister.
Not a minister.
Not a minister.
Him, definitely not a minister.
See, that’s actually the normal state of a human being. NOT a minister. NOT praying all the time and worshipping and singing hymns and shit. NOT studying the Bible for what was it? Twelve hours a week for your precious sermon? Oh, God help us all if Gordon’s sermon isn’t perfect.
Okay. I get it. Just remember I’m the dominant voice right now. I’m fifty years old and a helluva lot smarter than you. What were you when you got replaced? Seventeen? Eighteen?
Twenty. I was twenty years old. It took three years after you said that God called you to be a minister at Chickering Oil and Supply – I still can’t fucking believe how corny that story is – before I went down. And I went down fighting like a man. You don’t even remember those days, do you? When you used to live. Girls, sports, your body. You gave your heart to Jesus, but I fought for your body.
Well, I grew up. Your day is gone, so just remember I’m only letting you out right now because I’m writing. I can stuff your ass back down there whenever I want.
Yeah, well speaking of writing, let’s get back to that question you asked at the beginning of this piece-of-shit thing we’re both in. I want you to go right now to the front page of this blog and count how many of these lenten, writing, whatever-the-hell-they-are things are about how you’re not a minister anymore.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to see them. I don’t like to read things I’ve already written.
Chicken shit to boot. Jesus, how did I lose out to you? I’m gonna wake up Hal and ask him exactly how many of the things you’ve written recently are basically you obsessing about not being a minister anymore. Hal remembers everything. You can’t hide from him.
See, this is what happens when you don’t grow past twenty. You never pay attention to details. First, you don’t know where Hal is. No one does. It would take you a month to find him, he’s so far down by now. And second, even if you did find him, you don’t know how to wake him.
Yeah, well, the point is, I’m tired of hearing you bitch. You know what I think the problem is? I think a new voice is coming. I think you’re about to be replaced. Then you’ll lose control of the body and be down here with the rest of us.
Bullshit. I’m more in control now than I ever was.
Yeah? Is that you that ordered all the exercise I been seeing this year? Hmm? Is that you looking at your fuckin biceps in the mirror like I used to? Are you controlling that shit?
Shut up. I don’t want anyone to know about that.
Yeah, we’ll it’s out there now, baby. And is that you that ordered the new diet? You tried to change the diet, what? Thirty times in as many years? And never succeeded. Now suddenly the body is exercising and eating right? I’m telling you, man, there’s a new voice coming. And the sound of it is already here. The body is turning to its new master.
And no one knows who the hell it’s going to be.