Dear God,

I know I haven't been the best person lately.  I said I'd stop complaining about Alan smoking all my cigarettes, but I went ahead and started gossiping about him to another friend, and that one's kinda cheap—I mean he bought me a quesadilla, cause I drove, but he wasn't having any of it when I broached the idea of an horchata, too, to wash down the asada and chesse.  He's kind of a jerk, oh Masterful One.  And, my lottery numbers haven't come up—I mean, I know the world is a big place, what with all these fuckin refugees you have to deal with. I don't want to be selfish—but I mean, buy land assholes!  I just want to get in a work out today.  I don't know how the run will be, it sounds so boring, O Underlying Creative Spirit of the Universe.  I've been smoking so many cigarettes trying to psych myself up, my stomach hurts.  You can't even run and smoke on the treadmill without people near you getting angry.  And you can't cuss in front of their kids.  I hate them.  Thank you.  You are the Good in Everyone.

Yours Truly,

well, you know who I am, and that prayer—yea, that one.