Expectorata Theologica

Today when I was all choleric and bilious on my way home from school I imagined meeting God. And I hoped that, like the Christians think, he made us in His image, so that He looked exactly like me. We were probably on a cloud, as seems traditional, and we would both be in nicely laundered and ironed white linen robes, as is the custom in Heaven. He would greet me all pleasantly and then advance on me to hug me, because I was His son and I was returning to Him perhaps for the first time. I think as He was coming in to land the hug I would spit right in His fucking face, which would also be my own face. Though He is omniscient I think He would feign surprise and ask for an explanation. Which I wouldn't give. And that would hurt Him the most, I hope. Staring back into his perfectly beatific, passionless blue eyes, I'd never speak again, never cry or hope for anything again, never allow myself the slightest feeling of relief. Just the minor mistakes He's made are unforgivable, just those. I like Jonathan Richman and all, but I'm dubious of the kind of love that creates mosquitoes and also humans, and plops them down close to each other. There's no lesson in life to learn, that's the lesson. And the result of it is us spitting in God's miserable fucking face. I almost hope we meet, I even kind've expect it. Bring a handkerchief pal.