Who and What I Am, Part 3

Me as I really look. Unfiltered. Dorian undying.

And now God is mad at me too. Already talked about the other ones who are mad in Parts 1 and 2. (Go look it up for yourselves.)

We’ve had a crisis here. I’m 67 and I don’t go to doctors. I go to RiteAid for aspirin, antacids, and glasses. I’m in the process of trying to write our way out of the poorhouse by whipping up a series of old-fashioned porn novels that are turning out to be better than I’d hoped. Kindle is even featuring the first book in the projected series. But the big Himself is cheesed off about the whole enterprise. Apparently.

I keep my glasses to the left of the iPad. In the pile under my facemasks. My main pair is always right up front next to my coffee cup. Just saying. I’m an obsessive. Nobody has access to this state of affairs. Not even my wife.

I don’t throw the failing glasses away. When a temple piece breaks or gets bent funny, it just becomes a backup and begins an afterlife of lurking under the pile with about 40 years worth of sunglasses.

Only God has access to this pile. And he just took all my reading glasses away. Overnight. Vanished. But for this one old, skewed-silly weakish pair I’m wearing now. Maybe four, five pair of 1.5 to 2.0s GONE. Including the current, must-have pair.

Not making this up. Looked everywhere. Thoroughly. My wife looked too. There’s no rational, scientific explanation. She agrees. It’s  impossible for all of them to be gone. Just GONE. I totally freaked. It’s not possible. If I don’t have glasses I can’t see to write. If I can’t write we starve. On a grate in Philadelphia. It’s no surprise that He can mess with the physics of everyday life. What’s surprising is that he’d bother to do it with me. Pisses me off.

When I woke up about an hour ago, my wife had left me a note. Here it is.

The apology is in my handwriting. If He doesn’t want me to write funny porn with a profound underlying social message, he could just whisper it in my ear, couldn’t he? But no. He has to go all God on me. I already did this, just to make bad better, though we do need money if we’re not going to die on a grate in Philadelphia.

Sorry, pal. Please give me my specs back. And send me a check while you’re at it.