Why am I here, God? Why did You create me, and put me on this earth? I’ve been struggling with that question lately. I know You have a grand plan, but sometimes it’s hard for me to understand what it is.
Really, what I mean to ask is, why am I me? Why did You give me this hot body, these smoldering good looks? Why do I deserve these things? There are people who are born with unibrows, or bad teeth, or skin that burns painfully rather than tans to a golden bronze like mine does. Why are You so good to me?
I’m not perfect. I know that. Your plan is mysterious, but it probably didn’t involve me doing that coke tonight in the back of that limo. Or maybe it did. Perhaps that gift of blow was Your way of saying: Right on, man. You keep on chooglin’, just like you’ve done for 35 years. If so, thank You for that small powdery grace.
But why, God? Why do You subject me to challenges, such as…um…Veronica? Is that her name? Please forgive me, God, if I got her name wrong. The events of this evening were complicated and awesome, and my memory is taxed. But as I was asking, why did You put me in that limo with Veronica? Why did You give me the excellent idea to text my buddy Bobby around eleven, just when he was heading out to party? I don’t understand, but I humbly thank You for your gifts, even as I ask You to clarify why You chose to subject my yearlong relationship with Rachel to the stress of a ridiculously sexy woman straddling me and inviting me to sniff cocaine off her breasts. That was a challenge for me, God, and I can’t say I handled that particular situation in the way Your Son might have. I’m just guessing here.
Hey, listen, Bro. It’s cool. I don’t expect an e-mail with all the answers or anything. I just wanted to hit You up and say thinks for Your kindnesses, and thanks for the mysterious challenges that You have sent my way. They make me a better man, because that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and it is definitely not going to kill me to bone this fox a couple more times tonight.
Look at her sleeping. She looks like an angel. Is that weird? I’ll bet a real angel would be totally fierce in the sack, but I guess I’ll never know. Yet another of the many mysteries of this mysterious life.