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Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Purgatory... OK?

You'd think that at midnight on the dais there'd be something more than a mint julep just sitting in the middle of the floor.  It's not even on a plinth or anything.  No napkin.  A place of honor deserves more than a stupid drink and I am definitely not in the mood for mint.  For honor, yes.  Because I so richly deserve it.  But this is all that I get and so I think I will try to slog it down.  

Where's the dais?  At the end of this God forsaken medieval hall.  In which I'm stuck.  In which I'm locked in.  A gremlin comes and serves me and offers very little praise.  I'm here because I think I deserve more and God is not one to play with children who think they are at least as good as HE is.  

Purgatory, OK?

For the love of Pete, I didn't think it existed.  I'm Presbyterian.  We don't do purgatory.  Well, God didn't get the memo.

I offed myself and ended up here.  That's what they do with you when you do something permanent like that.  I didn't even get to attend the funeral.  Which is fucked since I went to all that trouble.  All those wretched people finally sorry for the way they treated me and here I am stuck in this medieval hall standing on the dais, speech in hand, with no audience and only a mint julep to keep me company.  At least there's that.

Even the goblins won't speak to me or clap at my cleverness.  Which also sucks.  Like this horrible drink.  Which I don't think I'll finish.

The rest of my time is supposed to be spent "thinking about what you did."  It hurts my brain to think about it.  

After all, I really was spectacular in life.  I mean, so many things were wrong with me, I had to be interesting.  Perfect people aren't interesting.  They live these quiet lives, never offending anyone and never getting any attention, which is what it's all about.  Let's just be frank about that.  

Right now, I'm tap dancing on this dais.  The hall makes it echo beautifully and if you want to know the truth, I have the feet of Ginger Rogers.  I mean I can flat out dance.  I used to dance for people all the time.  They loved it.  They really did.  I'd wear those tappy hard soled shoes and I'd dance everywhere I went.  Isn't that what we're supposed to do?  But dance in the wrong setting and... OH NO!  Everybody gets all upset.

I ended my dance myself.  What's wrong with that?  Apparently, it isn't enough to send you ALL the way to hell.  I'm only here.  With no one to watch me.  Which sucks.  

The drink isn't that bad.  

Anyway, if anyone can hear me at all, I'd like some response now.  Someone tell me I'm unique and special.  I know I am, but if you tell me, I'm sure you'll win points with God and perhaps even avoid this very hall and this stupid dais on which you really should be honored.  Just take it from me, you want to please the Big Guy because he can bump your ass right down here.  And you'll have to drink mint juleps until you've learned your lesson.  Solitary confinement. 

Is... not... fun.

3 comments:

  1. We need to have a movie night to watch Defending Your Life.
    And if it has to be mint, couldn't it be a mojito? Maybe only Cuban Presbyterians get those.

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  2. Just one other note. This came out of my experience with an online community of folks with various mental instabilities. Daily, I receive notes from people who are going to kill themselves. No, really. Purgatory is my answer to such histrionics, I guess. Anyway, it was fun thinking up the dais and the mint julep. (Bleck!)

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