I used to have these shoes, right? These beautiful wonderful shoes. Usually, I'm not one to care but these were something else. They were yellow but not a bright, showy yellow, just a nice, golden kind of yellow with a wedge heel and a small flower over the toes. I loved those shoes. I wore them even as the leather was cracking and the heels were falling apart. The only thing was that they hurt. A lot. They never quite made me bleed, but every step caused my calves and the bottom of my feet to protest. But. I kept wearing them every day. I had this idea that eventually, if I just ignored it, my feet would used to it. They'd get tough enough to just deal with it. Those wonderful shoes fell completely apart before that ever happened.

I've been thinking about it alot lately and I've decided that God, to me, is most like Sean Connery. "What?" I hear you cry. "That makes no sense." Just wait. I will explain. Sean Connery has a very reconizable voice. You and the average human would hear it and say, "ahh yes I know that voice well." Or at worst you might say "that voice. It's so familier. I know I've heard it before somewhere." But. I want you to do an experiment for me. Call it homework. Or don't. Go into a room full of people, any room, and ask the people in question to do their best impression of Sean Connery. They'll all have one, even if they're too embarrassed to say them out loud. And I bet some of them will be so good that, if the real Sean Connery was in the room, you would have some difficulty pointing out the real one. That's how God is to me. If it was just he and I, I'd know him in an instant. But. It's not just he and I. It's he and I and all these imposters. I hate that this is true but there's no way to deny it. I don't know what is true about him and what are lies. And if he's giving me a whole bunch of hints than I'm too busy thinking, "are you REALLY God? Or are you an impersonator? Cause there is not way I'm falling for that trick." You see? It makes some kind of sense doesn't it, this theory of mine. At least, I think it does.

I've figured it out. The root of our problem. And, to my immense surprise, it's not you. The problem is that talking to you is like a running a race. You know what I mean. We go faster, faster, faster. Arguing and competing to make each other laugh. Trying to get there first. It makes a person feel exuasted, gasping for breath. And I, being who I am, misenterpretted that breathless feeling for affection or something like the mythical symptoms of love. You see? In reality it was just the race, nothing more. Did you figure it out before I did? Or did you always know?