“Well, well, well. What have we here?” The snotty little god that lives in my ego held up a copy of the first volume of Godblogs. I tried to snatch it away.
“What’s with this?” She pointed to the back cover. “OMG. Did you bribe these amazing writers or just make these accolades up? Here’s what I’d say. Sanctimonious, solipsistic drivel. But never mind. No one reads the back anyway.”
I covered my ears.
“Why the cheap-looking shiny cover? The missing page numbers? The sketches seem a little blurry. Did you scan them yourself?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Why’d you publish Print-on-Demand from the exploitive Behemoth of Online Indulgences? Probably packaged by starving children soon to die of climate change. No one will appreciate having to order this.”
I shrugged.
“Sure. Roll your eyes, cover your ears, shrug me off. You’re a needy, cloying, backstage shadow. You’re pathetic.”
The barrage was starting to hurt. I curled fetal.
“SHOO! ENOUGH!” Big God arrived, waving a flyswatter. “She gets up every morning, eats breakfast, and we hang out. I dance around in her head, which gets pretty weird, but I like her reports of these encounters. Sometimes, I let her see through the cracks.”
“Fool,” little god muttered. She shot me the evil eye and faded away.
“Thanks,” I said to Big God. “But honestly, is it worth it?”
Big God winked and curtsied. “May I have this dance?”
I looked away. Our morning dances range from raves to tangos, waltzes to Irish jigs, macarena to ballroom. In the background, ranch hands do the two-step. Rappers grab their crotches. Skeletons rattle their bones. I struggle with the beat in the Circle Dance, and I wouldn’t dream of trying to fancy dance. Or would I?
“Well, the book is a little flawed,” Big God said, pulling me to my feet. “But I don’t mind. The next volume might be better. Formatting is the shits.”
“We don’t talk like that in our family,” I said, arms crossed.
“Damn right!” Big God laughed. “Honey, you can claim whatever nonsense you’d like. I know what’s in your heart. It’s a little flawed, too. But like I said, I don’t mind.”
A fiery string of forbidden expletives leapt to mind. Big Ass God should not make fun of me or poke the hell out of my fucking defenses or shine a shitty light on my pissant denials.
“I repeat, may I have this dance?” Big God was laughing out loud.
“Fine,” I mumbled. Then mustering a scrap of dignity, I added. “Just don’t step on my toes.”
“I can’t help it,” Big God said, still chuckling. “Sometimes, you’re all toes.”
Short visits with an honest God 