When things get this bad I look for the point. There always has to be a point. Otherwise, what's the point? It's an existentialist's nightmare.
I almost expect to see Roma Downey from Touched by an Angel standing outside the van in the Toys R Us parking lot in the middle of the night. Her aura an unearthly glow. She will say, in that endearing accent of hers, "Jae, Got loves yew. . .He only wants the best fer yew . . ."
And suddenly it would all be clear to me, and my heart would fill with love and understanding and I would sleep peacefully through the night finally, waking to find my whole world had changed...the claim had gone through with the VA, the lawyer calls and tells me he has a fat check from Social Security, a publisher is desperately trying to reach me to publish my book. I would gleefully deposit the money in the bank, buy a house and a new van, start a band, and then the real love of my life would enter, stage right.
In my distorted dreams, it's more like an ugly, unshaven angel appears, puffing on a big cigar he got from his deal with Castro, smiles at me with rotten teeth and from within his aura of soot and smoke, he says, "God doesn't love you. He thinks you're a miscreation. He only wants you to suffer." At which point he leans forward and burns me with an ugly finger.
An angel never touches me. God doesn't send any messengers, except of the foul variety, and I wonder why life can't be just a tiny slice of what Hollywood tells us it is.
And then my mind drifts to the only other method I have at my disposal to be touched by an Angel...take that step into the hereafter, hunt one down and say, "Touch me, Dammit!" And when it refused, I would touch it around the neck with both hands--and squeeze.
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