This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
God help us. God help us. God kill me. I swear on your life, God, Jehovah, almighty, creator of everything, Allah, and whatever other name you claim, that if you don’t kill me now-I’ll-I’ll, I’ll snap my fingers twice within the next thirty seconds.
I didn’t snap my fingers, so now I figure either God is dead, or I am, or I am God.
My fingers are crossed for the last scenario, though if I did turn out to be God, I’d probably kill myself, because of the stress an’ all. So that means that stress could kill God, however that is impossible because God is all powerful and all that jazz… which means stress is god!
My god I am brilliant, I just solved all the theological problems of today in a short two or three paragraphs. Admittedly it does raise some questions about Jesus, but we can leave those for the next generation. Poor generation is going to have to find out the meaning of Stress and solve global warming, or at least buy a whole lot of sunscreen.
Why such dismal thoughts (I don’t think they are dismal but you may) you might ax me? Well I, as it were, well, have no future to speak of. I am eighteen and have no prospects in life, none whatsoever. I have failed the SATS, not once but multiple times.
Panic attacks. If, I mean because, God is Stress, panic attacks must be His true Gabriel, his true messenger. So I should feel great, I should feel like God/Stress has taken a special interest in me, that I have been touched by the Devine. But if that is the case why do I feel like shit? Like my heart, throat and stomach are being choked by a chain link fence?
My mom tried to comfort me. My dad tried to comfort me. My councilor tried to comfort me. ‘It’ll all work out, you’ll pull though, it is just this day and age we live in, they expect too much of kids I tell you.’
Then how come my sisters snickered at my failure? How come almost all my classmates are going to some nice college somewhere? They live in This Day and Age too. My teachers know. My peers know. They all
tut-tutted and shook their heads at me and wouldn’t meet my eyes and gossiped about me quite literally behind my back. As if my ears stopped working, as if I’m a hobo, or worse, a foreigner.
