April 30th, 2010:
I’ve had it with you. Let’s just say that the rules you’ve set down for me are too much to handle. Whether it’s your ten commandments or your path to enlightenment or some other method of guilt-trippy divinely-induced obedience, I’m done. I have tried to ascend, to climb the ladder, to be the best version of myself. I’ve tried to be selfless and sacrificial, to love everyone, to do unto them as I would do to myself. But let’s face it. I can’t. I can’t climb your fucking ladder. So as long as you keep asking me to be something I’m not and to do something I can’t do—to be perfect, for godsakes?—I’m going to go on disappointing you. And honestly, my rebellion will be a great addition to the new self that I’m building without you. You know, come to think of it, maybe people think you’re dead because they just wish that you were. Maybe we’re all tired of you keeping an eye on us. So until you can get your act together and meet me where I’m at, this is over. You are dead to me.
July 25th, 2013
Dear World (lovers, family, friends, acquaintances, etc.),
We’ve been at it for a few years now and I’m afraid I feel the same way about you as I did about God. Let’s face it. I’m not measuring up. I’ve been trying to “eat, pray, love” for a while now, and I’m 30 pounds overweight, quite confused, and alone. I’m supposed to spend my life giving it away for others, doing something that I love to do, and earning a sizeable income while at it. But that story’s not working for me any more. Who exactly is it working for, again? You evaluate me based on where I grew up, where I went to school, where I’ve worked, where I’m working, where I’m living, where I’m moving (or why I’m not moving), what I “want to do with my life,” what I look like on Instagram, what I sound like on Twitter, what I’m listening to on Spotify, who I’m dating (if I’m dating—am I datable?), what I’m eating, drinking, reading, driving, saying, not saying and, goddammit, it’s just too much. And you want it all to look effortless! Heaven forbid I look like I’m trying. You want me on the edge and playing it safe—living like money’s no object and saving like it’s the only object. You want me sensitive and untouchable, hilarious and dead serious, hopeful and cynical, put together and chicly untethered, well-adjusted and restless. And I just can’t cut it. It’s kind of ironic. You’ve started to look a lot more like “God” than you used to. The primary difference is that you’ve got a whole lot more unwritten rules to play by and, let’s be honest, a whole lot less promise. As a result, you are now dead to me, World. And to make this eminently clear to you, I reject your supreme commandment: that I must be myself. I reject this precisely because that is how you keep me climbing your ladder. I’m done climbing.
December 23rd, 2014
Dear God & World,
I miss you both dearly, but I’m not budging. You’re both dead to me. Hope? No. There’s no hope. Not unless one of you can drag yourself out of the grave I put you in and figure out a way to climb down here and love me even when I can’t be myself to your liking.