Falling From Grace
Dear God, or, Mary, or Jesus...
Well--hi, Your Highnesses. I--well...I just have a few questions. I know we haven't chatted in forever and I'm running around like Marie Antoinette with her head cut off, and you're probably concerned about whatever's in my mind and my choices so far in life, with my baptism and all. How's Mom? I still miss her, you know and it's just not fair to leave me down here and take her away--wherever you live. I don't even deserve it! It's like my life is some long-running ironic play and no matter how many times I try to change up the leading role, it turns out the same. Maybe I should have went back to college and gotten a degree but it would have probably turned out the same way--who wants someone like me in the force?
NO ONE.
Or maybe I'm whining too much. This whole diary will be made up of whining from somebody who had eight run ins with Michael (hey, Michael--sorry about Christmas, again...) and mistakenly believed she was a lesbian in the third or fourth grade, I can't remember--it landed me here in the first place, didn't it? Typing away on a laptop at twenty-one.
So, I guess, if you have any time to spare--will you listen?
Alice?
