I blurted profanity that rhymes with duck poo at a person I see on my regular walks.
The guy who has been working overtime to save my soul ever since I told him my church congregation, who knows about my condition, who tells me he has stepped up his prayers for me, who asked if I am even a teeny bit better, to which I replied Nope. My condition is progressive and my future course is unpredictable.
The guy who then pointed at the SKY and told me only God knows my future and a miracle will happen.
The guy whose face betrayed confusion with my two precisely chosen words (I’m a poet!) or that his evidently crappy prayers haven’t been working.
I am certain he is not confused by the incoherent world he has conjured, in which he knows a miracle will happen, though only God knows my future.
A world in which God gave us brains that we are shamed into not using, a world in which an omniscient, omnipotent, and pretty good God permits our brains to be smashed to smithereens.
So, I think I blurted Fuck You. “Lordy, I hope there are tapes.”