To the Big Guy Upstairs

Dear Big Guy Upstairs, I know you’re up there—lounging on your celestial recliner, sipping cosmic coffee, and watching reruns of the Big Bang. Or maybe you’re busy untangling the strings of fate, like a celestial cat playing with yarn.

Now, I’ve got effing questions.

Listen, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Yeah, me—poet, barfly, and general misfit. You created this place called Earth, right? Populated it with people, mosquitoes, and kale salads. And then you sat back, kicked up your divine feet, and said, “Let’s see how this dumpster fire unfolds.”

First off, why mosquitoes? Those little bloodsuckers are like your practical joke. You must’ve chuckled when you made them—tiny vampires thirsty for ankles.

And don’t get me started on kale salads. Did you run out of ideas, Big Guy? “Let’s create something green and tasteless,” you said. Well, congrats—you nailed it.

But let’s talk about love. You cooked up this recipe called “romance,” sprinkled it with hormones, and served it to us like a comedic Tinder profile. And what do we get? Heartaches, missed connections, and awkward first dates. Thanks, Big Guy. Real smooth.

Why did you make women so damned beautiful? It’s like you dipped them in moonlight and sprinkled stardust on their eyelashes. And then you gave them the power to break hearts with a smile. Cruel move, my friend.

And speaking of hearts, mine’s been fucking stomped on more times than a cockroach at a nuclear test site. Did you design love to be this messy? Or did you throw a bunch of hormones into a blender and hit “liquefy”?

But let’s get personal, Big Guy. Why did you make writers? We’re your cosmic court jesters, aren’t we? Scribbling our drunken thoughts on napkins, hoping someone notices. But you? You’re probably too busy rearranging galaxies or playing 17th-dimensional stellar poker with Cthulhu.

So, here is my prayer:

Dear Big Guy: If you exist, give me one more shot of whiskey and a reason to keep writing. If not, well, cheers anyway. Yours in cosmic absurdity. P.S. If you ever decide to respond, send a shooting star my way or maybe the Northern Lights.
Yours in cosmic absurdity.”

About ten minutes later, this flashed on the computer screen:

“Dear Smart Ass: If you exist, consider this your celestial whiskey shot. Keep writing—it’s the universe’s best-kept secret. As for shooting stars and Northern Lights, they are not my thing, not my way of saying, ‘Keep scribbling, my cosmic court jester,’ Cthulhu, on the other hand…Yours in celestial absurdity, The Big Guy Upstairs.”