God, she's just not that into you.

I hadn't slept. I'd destroyed myself staying up all night as it turned into morning, making out with him, the invoker of butterflies in my stomach. I had gotten to my parents house to look after my mother (inbetween my eighteen naps) and funnelled two massive cups of coffee down my throat. Tidal waves of nausea ensued. My head throbbed, my mood ebbed and flowed between memories of soft words spoken in the spaces of kisses, and all I wanted was to go back in time.

When my father came back from work, I'd somehow managed to look after the two dogs, and feed my mother, and I decided I would treat myself to a cab home. When I got in, I thanked the cabbie for accepting my dog as part of the fare, and made the polite chitchat you should make with your driver.

Not two minutes later, Jesus Christ hitched a ride with us.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" John, the cabbie had asked me. I figured a personal question or two wouldn't hurt, would keep me alert and on my toes.
"Sure, " I said.
"Have you imagined your spiritual death?"

What the...? How's that...? Spiritu...huh?

John launched into a diatribe on God and his son and the happy family of divinity and truth I was doubtless missing out on. I was a sinner, I colluded with sinners, and unless I opened my heart to Jesus, I could consider myself unwelcome in Heaven. I frantically tried to think of some polite way to intercept this forced conversion of my faithlessness, but John, in full preaching mode, spittle and religiosity spraying from his lips, would not be interrupted. Plus, we had somehow ended up on the highway, and I was frightened, I don't like not knowing where I am, and I feared he was kidnapping me to fulfill some daily quota of saved pagan flesh.

So I kept quiet, and interjected "That's a good point" and "Hmm, interesting" into the few pauses John's intakes of breath allowed me. I was sick and tired, and it was evident that God, once again, hadn't been listening to me. We've already had this conversation, again and again, but he simply can't let it go. Now he's even getting his friends to talk to me about it?!?

For the last time!!!

Me: Are you there God? It's me, Mookie"
Him: Yes, my child.
Me: No, no listen, please, I'm not your child. I'm not a follower, a sheep in the flock, a virgin, a sinner. I'm me, a human. I'm a godless human.
Him: I don't think so.
Me: No, really, I appreciate that you take such an interest in even the most ignorant opposition to what I'm sure, if I 'believed', is your Greatness, but please, stop. Stop calling me, stop popping up in every corner of conversation I think is God-free, stop piggybacking my cab rides. I don't need you. I don't want you.
Him: -reverential silence -This isn't over. -Thunder-

Why, in the past two months, have I been confronted repeatedly with my un-religion? In defending my beliefs of randomness with a few religious friends, I've ended up sounding bigoted and righteous. Why is this questioning of religion called a "lack of faith"? I have faith, primarily in tangible things. In people, in actions, in concepts of love and truth and goodness and bravery, concepts proven by people and their actions. I've made my own peace, saved my own self from spiritual disintigration, numerous times, I've cobbled together my own answers on why terrible things happen, and redemption, forgiveness, these are earthly possibilities I've witnessed down here in real life. I didn't need God then, and I sure don't need him now!

Far be it from me to tell another soul how to manifest salvation. May intolerance and fearful hatred of the unknown never know my company. But for Pete's sake! just as sure as I don't pass judgement on your faith, stop assuming the absence of mine! Stop telling me I'm doing it wrong, because the fact remains that I still have innocence in my heart despite my sins of pride and envy and near-adultory and all the other black marks against my name. I still believe in the inherent greatness of ordinary people despite a dearth of evidence to the contrary in the daily news.

I didn't vomit in John's cab. I wish I had. It may have afforded me the silence I had a right to, but was too scared to ask for. Jesus was remarkably silent for the whole ride. I imagine if he did exist, he would have rolled his eyes at the preacher and the sinner, neither one truly being themselves, cracked open the window, and let the sharp air fill his lungs as he looked up at the darkened sky, wanting only to get home.