Sorry, Judy Blume

Are you there God? It's me, Kristabel.

I know you're aware that I don't really believe in that whole walking-on-water-rising-from-the-tomb thing, but that doesn't mean I can't still talk to you sometimes, right? This week's been tough, and I think you're the only one who can help me out. So this is your thank you letter - in advance.

About Steve, that guy I kept staring at while eating lunch at the Chinese place yesterday...remember that summer when he used to sneak over to my house in the middle of the night and make out with me through my bedroom window? Remember how he dumped me on the first day of sophomore year for that skinny little blonde girl? Thank you for making sure that he has six screaming kids and a wife with a severe facial hair problem at home. Thank you for causing him to have to live with his mother-in-law who refuses to let anyone watch television unless it's the Lifetime for women channel and who leaves her dentures all over the house.

And about that woman at work who sent me a bitchy email about overdue paperwork and c.c.'d it to my boss....thank you for giving her a really bad haircut, you know like the one Suzy Owsley sported for two years. Thank you for making all of those celery sticks she's always chewing on suddenly have 1,000 calories each so she gains 20 pounds in one week.

And about that rude salesperson who kept gossiping instead of ringing up my cargo pants and then acted like I completely interrupted her and she was doing me a huge favor by taking my money....thank you for making her drink so many Singapore slings that she sings Christina Aguilera's "Dirty" off-key at the Blue Lake casino karaoke night then refuses to get off the stage when the song is over and uses the microphone to tell the entire audience about her husband's erection problems. The bright pink projectile vomiting is only a decision you can make, God, so I'm leaving that one in your capable hands.

Thank you so much.

xoxox,
Kristabel

P.S. I realize you probably think I've got one foot in the handbasket already, but I've gotta tell you, the thought of spending an eternity with Satan is a lot less scary than the thought of spending it with those freaks who speak in tongues and roll around on the floor.
P.P.S. Oh, and that time that the gas station clerk gave me change for $20 when I'd only given him $10, and I kept it? I was really broke at the time, but I feel totally bad about it now.
P.P.P.S. I also realize that this kind of stuff is cake for someone as powerful as you, so just so you're prepared, my next thank you letter will include Darfur, the Iraq war and becoming the filling in a Gulo Gordo - Heraldo sandwich.
P.P.P.P.S. Amen