Reality left another message on my voice mail. He's been trying to get in touch with me for months now, and I keep ducking him. He was leaning against my car in the parking lot a few evenings ago, but I saw him from my office window, so I sneaked out the back way and walked to the bus stop. Reality seems to think I owe him something, but I contend that it's the other way around. If I own him some debt, I refuse to pay it. He can send his goons all he wants, I don't care any more. I'm done dealing with reality.
"I can imagine a creator," she said, "but I see no evidence that that creator wants anything specific from us. If some creator wants something from us, it should be more obvious. It would be unreasonable for a creator who created this vague, mysterious world to punish us for failing to fulfill some duty that creator didn't even bother to make plain."
"I don't want to discuss this," he said.
"And don't tell me it's written in some book. There are a million books. Which one is the one? How are we supposed to know? I contend that we live in a world created by an itinerant prankster and that he or she is long gone and never coming back. And no book was left behind, just this beautiful mess of a world, this never-ending joke."
"I didn't say anything about it," he said. "I just want to enjoy breakfast. Can we just enjoy breakfast? It's a beautiful morning."
She stared at him with evaporating intensity until her anger dissipated and her stare slid down from his eyes to his mouth to his chest and then down to the plate of pancakes that was growing cold in front of her. "It is a beautiful day," she agreed. "How is your omelette?"
"It's pretty good, especially the mushrooms."
He loves mushrooms.
Hello, friends. I hope reality is treating you well.
Later. Love.
