#20: I Swear: This Is a Work of Fiction.

I had this story idea last night. Decided to write it for the blog this morning, since I missed last weekend -- too much work. No reason I used myself, other than I fit the character and it was easier than making someone up.


MmmmmHondammmmmmmmmmmmfrogsmmmmmmmmmshootingRomancandlesmmmmmmmmmmmBogotammmmmmmAmazonmmmmmmmmmmmhailstonesgallstonesrollingstonesmmmmmmmmmcrumbcakemmmmmmmmmboilingwatermmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmchalkmmmmmmmwhat?
Huh?
Dark. Time is it?
Ugh. 2:00. Pee.
Hmm, hm, hmmmmmm. Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
Ah. Better. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm--
Cold. Stupid tangled cover. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm--
Hot.
That's better.
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
Hm. Last night it was something else. What was it? Right: Cause I fell on, Black days, I fell on, black days. How would I know that this could be my fate? Sure don't mind the change.
Seems appropriate. Didn't expect this life. Wouldn't mind a change.
No: stop. Don't think about it. Just think about sleep. Sleep. Sleep is good. Only had, what, three hours? I need more. Tomorrow is --
It's Saturday, so so what? I'll sleep in. I need the sleep. Haven't slept right in, what is it, months? Since October, probably. Other than Christmas break, that went all right, I slept then.
Ate too much, trapped by rain, didn't get any of the things done that I wanted to do. Just like every vacation, when I decide I'll get things done, when I'm not worried about the job. Doesn't matter: even on vacation, I bring work home. Always think about the job. It doesn't deserve thinking about, dammit. But I slept then. Not this week.
Sleep now. Too damn early to be awake.
Mmm.
Ow -- stupid foot. What the hell did I do to it?
Forget it. Sleep.
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
Great. Got it stuck in my head now. No: sleep. Think of something else. Think of a different song, something comforting.
Why are there so many songs about rainbows? And what's on the other side?
Mmm.
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
Crap. Damn that song. What is it with that thing? Pink's okay, but she isn't exactly what I'm looking for in a singer. No, that's not true. She's a good singer, hell of a voice. She just writes crappy songs most of the time. That one's not bad. She sings it well, especially that part in the middle: Why do we do that, why do we do that -- why do I do that?
Oh. Right. That's why. Sure, makes sense. Those lyrics would stick in my head, especially with a catchy tune to help them out.
Hell, I don't know. Why do I do this?
You know, man: it's so you can have a home and provide for your family. You should be proud of it.
Yeah, that's great. And I'd be proud of it if it weren't for all the shit that comes with it. If I didn't have to deal with idiots every goddamned day. Every goddamned day. All day long, really -- Christ, just think of this last morning, yesterday. Or the day before? Fuck it, I don't know. I don't fucking know why I put up with this, why I put up with -- No, don't think about it. It won't make anything better, just piss you off more, thinking about those jackasses. They don't deserve your time, you know that? They don't deserve it. Think they're lying in bed thinking about you at -- what time is it?
2:15. Great. And now I'm wide awake.
No, no: I'm not wide awake. Just awake. Just relax, roll over, that's it -- straighten out those pajamas, hate when they get tangled like that, man I've gotta lose weight, this shirt used to be looser on me. Just relax: lay on the cool side of the pillow. Feel the sleep. There, that's it. Take it easy. Don't think about work, don't think about crappy things, just sleep. Sleep.
Mmm.
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
It fits, you know. That's why you're thinking about it at -- 2:23 in the morning, that's great. Your subconscious threw this up at you because that's what's been in your mind, even if you haven't wanted to think about it.
Fine. I'll think about it, and then finish the thoughts, and then maybe I'll be able to relax and go back to sleep. Maybe I can get to sleep by 3:00. That would be all right, just lose an hour or so.
Hey wait, 3:00 -- oh, that's right. Tonight's the Rapture. Ha! World's going to end at 3:00. Hmm. Interesting that I woke up just, what, an hour before the end of the world? Makes you wonder if there's any truth to that, if God is going to come down and smite all the unworthy, or whatever. No, no smiting in this one, this is the happy God, not the Old Testament God. This one just comes to pick up his buddies, haul them off to the exclusive country club in the sky.
I wonder what kind of car God drives.
Pink caddy. Convertible, with the top rolled down. Playing good music. I bet God doesn't listen to that Christian contemporary crap -- how annoying would that get?
Does he hear every time someone says his name? Is that a prayer, every time? Maybe that's why you're not supposed to take God's name in vain. Maybe it annoys him. Maybe it's like his cellphone ringing every time you say God, or like a buzzing in his ear or something. Damn, how annoying must that Christian music be then? Or maybe they don't actually say God very much. Maybe they just say Him. He can't notice it every time someone says the word him. Well, of course, he hears the fall of every sparrow, or whatever the hell it is.
Do you think he hears it when you capitalize the H?
Oh, if she wasn't sleeping, I'd be singing out, "God, god god, god god god god, god god, god god god godgodgodgodgodgodgod!" right now. Really piss him off. Maybe if I sang it to a good tune -- Sunshine of Your Love, or something. No, wait: that would probably make him think about the Clapton is God stuff, and that's definitely going to make him angry. Though it's fun to think that that all makes Eric Clapton a golden calf. Eric Clapton violates a Commandment just by existing. If it was me, I'd get a tattoo or something that said that. Get a guitar shaped like a golden calf. Or a double-necked guitar shaped like the Ten Commandments, the tablets. Why doesn't anyone play a double-necked guitar any more?
Oh right: because they're fucking stupid.
Heh. Damn. What time -- 2:41? Great. Nothing like time crawling slow while you're laying in bed thinking up blasphemy. Blaspheming in bed. Bedpheming. No, that's no good.
All right, enough of this crap. Assuming the end of the world doesn't come, I need to get back to sleep. I'll probably wake up at 6:00 or so, so if I go to sleep by 3:00, I'll get, mm, 6 hours total. That's not too bad. I can take a nap tomorrow, too. Thank God it's Saturday.
So what do I need to think about, get out of my head so I can relax? Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me. All right. I know why I'm thinking that: because I feel less than perfect. Because sometimes I feel like I'm nothing. I know, it's stupid. I know I shouldn't think that. I have a wife, and kids -- fuzzy kids -- who love me dearly, as much as I love them. I am smart, talented, kind, honest. I'm a good guy. Sure, I'm less than perfect, I'm lazy, I'm sarcastic, I can be mean sometimes, I certainly think uncharitable thoughts. But nobody's perfect: why should you be any different? After all, you don't hold those little punks to that high a standard; as long as they show up, don't stab anybody, turn in some work every month or so, they can usually pull down a passing grade. Why do I have to be so much better than that, than they are? Why do I have to be the perfect man, perfect teacher, perfect role model?
Probably because I want to be better than they are. I don't want to sink to their level: I think so much less of them for their bad habits and everything. Well, no I don't; I remember what it was like to be a teenager, I remember how lazy you can be, how distracted by parents, by girls, by partying, by your own awkwardness, whatever. I remember. These kids have added distractions: I never could have passed a class if I had video games in hand, could I? I really should work harder to stop them from playing those things. But it doesn't matter: if I stop them, they still don't pay attention, they just go to sleep. If I stop them from going to sleep, they turn into little pricks, throwing things around the room, making snippy comments about how boring my class is, or how much school sucks, or what a jerk I am. So what? Call their parents? Yeah, that works for about fifteen minutes. So either I can spend every waking minute trying to make them toe the line -- which isn't really even my job, I'm just a teacher, not a parent, certainly not their parent, and thank God for that -- or I can just try my best to give them an opportunity, which they can take or not, as they like. Remember, if they're willing to learn, they'll learn, whether it's in my class or not. I just need to help those who are willing to learn as much as I can. And forgive the others.
So stop feeling like you're nothing. Hell, even Pink says it: You are perfect to me. I've been perfect for some students. Made a difference in their lives. I'm certainly perfect in Toni's eyes, in Charlie's. Well, maybe not perfect in Toni's. I'm not as thin as I was when we met, not by a long shot. I get annoying sometimes. Like when I'm tossing and turning at -- 2:52 in the morning. Hope I haven't woken her up. She's still breathing like she's asleep, but then she does that all the way up until she talks to me, sometimes. I'm certainly perfect in Charlie's eyes. That's why dogs are the greatest things ever. Where is he? I need to give him some pets.
Yes, baby, that's it. You are perfect to me, too. Love you bunches and bunches. Yes, thank you for the kisses. Go back to sleep, little boy. That's it: heave your heavy sigh and roll over. What a sweet puppy.
That's better. Nothing more comforting than unconditional love. That's what's nice about that song: my subconscious may have been going for the less than perfect part, that little piece of self-loathing, but it's got that affirmation at the end, too: You are perfect to me.
That's why people like the idea of God so much, too. I mean, sure, he's impossible as he's described in the Bible, totally unlikely in our universe, with a complete lack of compelling evidence for his existence outside of some poorly written book of incredibly dubious origin -- but what the hell? God loves us all unconditionally, right? Forgives us no matter what our sins? How could you not like thinking about that? How could anyone resist the idea that the ultimate master of all things, the greatest being in any plane of existence, loves -- me? Little old imperfect me?
Well, not me. I seriously doubt he loves a snarky atheist who hasn't been to church in, what, a score or more of years? Especially one who made up his own church, and got ordained just as a joke? I may be the most annoying atheist on the planet. And hey, if he really loved all of us, every single human, every one of his children, then there wouldn't be that whole rapture thing that's happening in --
Oo! 2:59 -- it's in one minute! Okay, here we go -- everybody hold on! Oh, this SO needs a Times Square countdown clock. How much longer until doomsday? I didn't see the clock turn 2:59, don't know how many seconds we are into this -- and hey, maybe my clock isn't exactly right, maybe it's off
CHOOSE.
"What the fuck?"
"What? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, go back to sleep. It's okay."
"Okay."
What the fuck was that? Was somebody talking
CHOOSE.
Okay. Okay. This is fine. I'm not insane, fuck maybe I'm insane. Am I hearing that? Is that coming from outside? Was that in my ears, or just in my
CHOOSE.
Oh, fuck, oh Jesus, son of a fucking bitch, it's in my fucking head, what the fuck, who is --
CHOOSE.
All right. Deep breath. This is fine. You're fine, everything's fine, it's not the end of the world -- Is it?
Is that what this is? Holy Christ, is this the Rapture? No, that can't be. There isn't any goddamned God! This is all bullshit dreamed up by some wacko with a Bible and bad math skills.
CHOOSE.
Oh fuck there can't be a voice in my head there can't be I have to be insane I can't be insane I can't get locked up lose my job lose my home lose my wife and my family I can't I can't I can't I can't fucking do this Toni I should wake up Toni NO what if she can't hear it then I'm really nuts really nuts really crazy oh God I fucking lost it
Stop. Breathe. Stop. Just stop. Hold on.
What do I choose?
to be or not to be
Okay, was that my thought? Am I thinking this? Am I -- Fuck this. I have to get up and talk about this. Go in the other room.
"Dusty? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, I'm just going in the other room for a minute."
"Can't sleep? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. You go back to sleep, I'll be back in a sec."
Right, that's it, come in the other room so we can speak out loud so I can speak out loud and you can answer -- oh fuck, you can answer in my head you know everything I think don't you oh shit this is just no good.
"Okay, please. I need to know. I'm scared to death, I don't understand what's happening. Please tell me what's going on. Are you there?"
I AM.
"Are you God?"
I AM I.
That means it's God. Jesus H. -- I shouldn't say that.
"Why are you speaking to me?"
CHOOSE.
"What am I choosing?"
to be or not to be
"So that is you saying that. Am I choosing whether I live or die? I want to live."
to be or not to be
"All right, fuck this, I'm already fucked for my sins anyway unless you really are forgiving, so I'm just going to come right out: can you just answer the fucking question please? Stop this roundabout answer bullshit and just tell me what the fuck you want?"
I want you to choose: existence or non-existence.
"For me? Or for the world?"
All Creation.
"And you picked me for this why?"
You know why. All my children are equal in my sight, you no less than any other.
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel, like you're less than, less than perfect; Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel that you're nothing, you are perfect, to me.
"Jesus Christ. Divine communication through a Pink song."
Choose.
"So this is it, huh? We all go, or not, on my say-so? I'm deciding --I'm judging Judgment Day? Damn. This is heavy. I can't believe I just quoted Marty McFly."
. . .
Okay. He's out of my head. Well, shit, I guess he's not, but at least he's not talking. Giving me a minute to think. That's good. I need to think about this.
No I don't. I don't want to die. Don't want to go to Hell.
But what if it is the nice one, the nice God? What if it isn't Hell? What if we all get to go to Heaven, maybe with some repenting, some Purgatory or something?
I wouldn't have to go back to work. Wouldn't have to worry about money. About fixing the roof. About my foot hurting.
Wouldn't have to grow old. Wouldn't have to lose Toni. Or Charlie. Wouldn't have any pain. Everything perfect.
Everything gone. It's to be or not to be, he said. Oblivion.
Maybe that would be good. Peace. No worries.
Is it worth it?
Is nothingness better than this?
Am I nothing? Am I less than nothing?
Could I ask Him?
Come on, man, you know better than that. He's not going to answer: it's on me. Free will. I get to choose.
Fuck, the whole fucking world. All of Creation. Jesus, it was Created. I've been wrong this whole --
That doesn't matter. Doesn't matter to him, obviously.
I just have to choose.
Choose.
To be, or not to be.
"I choose --"