Something About Twenty-One.

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. HEY GOD. ARE YOU LISTENING? IT'S ME MARGARET!

...Just kidding, God. It's not Margaret. That was my clever play on the popular Judy Blume-penned books that I have actually never read, but the nostalgia kick seemed like a good touch at the time. I formally regret that decision. Also, I have never read those books, just to be honest with you, God.

I find it a personal policy of worth to try and be honest when speaking to the presumed creator of the universe. Also, I should add that the other day my friend John was telling me about protons and mitons and how they seem to preclude the existence of a creator-figure, and it sort of made sense to me. God? Please don't be mad. It's just that science really speaks to me at this point in my fragile development.

And also, I made up the word "mitons"...I think.

Well, God, here we are. You and me. I've been a faithless, feckless lady for quite some time. I'm a basket-case. A very well-wrapped, well-coordinated basket-case, to be sure. But somewhere inside me is a ton of crazies just waiting to erupt through my subconscious and take control. Wait, I'm not trying to say I'm schizophrenic. Although this one time in 5th grade I had an acting teacher tell me to pretend I was schizophrenic and so I argued with myself about what to order off of a McDonald's menu and then she told me I was doing it wrong, but I'm sorry, that's a lot of pressure to put on a ten-year-old who has no prior experience with mental illness!

Well, here's the problem, O High King of Everything. I immediately should apologize for typing that sarcastically. The problem is that I am going to graduate soon, as I'm sure you recall from the numerous times I remind you about it every single day (God, I'm graduating, AND I'M SCARED), and I don't know what to do after that (and I'm scared). Like where to live/work/eat/laugh. Like about basically all and everything about my life. Like what I want to do with it. I feel like I've been given this giant gift, and it's just to big for me to take care of? It's like I asked for a pony for Christmas, one made out of plastic and tape, one I could take out of the toybox when I wanted to play with it and put it away when I was done. And then on Christmas morning, I walked down the stairs to find an Arabian Thoroughbred standing, snorting in my living room, pooping on my mother's carpet, and all I can think is how that's what I really wanted all along but WHAT WILL I DO WITH IT? I know nothing about the care of Arabian horses! I know how to beat up a plastic pony and tape its legs back on and I know how to play pretend, but I don't know what to do with the real, true life thing that's stomping in front of me and breathing very hot breath.

What I'm trying to say here is that I don't know what to do with this very big life that is breathing its very hot breath and dwarfing me in my inability to decide what to do with its magnificence. I have been given such a gift, such a wonderful, exorbitant gift, and I'm awash in insignificance in the face of it.

So, God. It's me, Margaret. And I don't know what to do with the beautiful, wonderful, fearsome, fiercely arrayed gift you have left in my living room for me. I can't hold the glory of it in my paltry hands. I'm worried I'll mess it up, I'll get scuff marks on it, that I'll drop it and it will shatter, that I'll run it too hard and too fast and its legs will break.

I am here, I am helpless, I am waiting.

Sincerely, Margaret.

P.S. It's not actually Margaret, once again - it's me, Becca.

P.P.S. Don't know why I consider Arabian horses to be so scary, but in my imagination, they're actually better than me at everything.

P.P.P.S. I'm comparing my life skills to those of a horse.