Fat cats and bedtime prayers

Up until about a month ago I prayed every night before I went to sleep. Toward the end, the prayers turned to lemons, then super balls that just bounced around my room and then finally, to rocks that weren’t flat or smooth enough to skip. Tired of watching my prayers sink, I stopped praying. This was more difficult then one would think. Every night I get myself ready to say something to the big brick wall in the sky but then have to bite my lip and tell myself, “no, stop that. Tonight we’re exercising our right NOT to pray.”

Last night, cold and tired of being sick I curled up into the fetal position on my bed and prayed again. At first I prayed a behemoth of a prayer, why not it was my first night off the wagon, I prayed that God would reach down from heaven with his magic Midas finger and zap the shit out of Alexander Hamilton (that’s what I named my ailment…see previous blog). Then I told God that it would be fine if I woke up tomorrow and A.H. was still hanging around, but He should give me the patience to wait it out a few more days and the knowledge that Alex will go away. What a mature prayer. Typically my conversations with the divine consist of me bitching about something, not expecting (or getting) any sort of response, and then declaring myself a lazy atheist. This morning I woke up nervous about the results of my prayer. I had dreams about Alex being gone and me calling up everyone I know in a fit of revival saying, “hallelujah! I prayed and Alexander Hamilton is gone! God actually listened to me…therefore HE IS real! hallelujah! I believe! it’s all a Jesus soaked landscape again!” But rather then rushing off to get a tattoo of a Celtic knot trinity I pulled the blankets up to my chin and prayed for a second time.

“God…hey…look if Alexander is still around…I don’t care. Just give me peace about it. Please. Thanks.” I laid there a while longer before I realized that for the first time in three years I was acting like a Christian. At this I panicked and attempted to force a sex dream. I finally kicked off my covers and went to check on my tiny miracle. Alexander Hamilton was there, dry and still white with last nights medicine. I sighed and rubbed my clavicle with my fingertips then rested my palm over my chest like a scout. I couldn’t feel my heart beat, but I knew it was in there and I knew it wasn’t beating at God with it’s usual confusion and contempt. It was just beating, and I will get up…I will pay my parking ticket, I will get myself a smoothie, I will read a little, I will sulk around my studio until I make something, I will have good conversations, my cat will continue to be flea-ridden, and my heart will still be beating.